


Brake Fluid

by spectreink91



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bail bondsman, Blood, Boning, Bounty Hunter, Breakup scene, Bribery, Calanthe is a bitch from hell, Calling the police, Car Accident, Child Abuse, Ciri is so freaking adorable, Cock Rings, Coffeeshop performance, Corrupt Foster Care System, Corruption, Court Drama, Custody Battle, Daddy/daughter angst, Domestic Fluff, Emotion Porn, Eventual Smut, FaceTime Sex, FaceTime cuddles, Family Angst, First date (kinda), Fluff, Foster Kids Abuse, Geralt Rescuing Ciri, Geralt and Ciri are adorable, Geralt and Yen’s past relationship, Geralt finally gets some good stuff, Geralt has feelings, Geralt is a jackass himbo who needs a hug and a slap to the face, Geralt is a tender single dad, Geralt is emotionally constipated, Geralt is falling in love, Geralt’s oh shit I’m in love moment, Geralt’s sad past, Good sometimes wins, Happy Family, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier and Geralt post-relationship, Jaskier is adorable and feisty, Jaskier is sexy af, Jaskier is so sweet and supportive, Living Together, Long Distance Relationship, M/M, Medical Angst, Medical Recovery, Multiple Orgasms, Official adoption, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Panic Attacks, Phone Sex, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post Ep 6 resolution, Reconciliation, Reconciling through Trauma and Grief, Renfri feels, Singing each other to sleep, Surgery, Tags will be updated as chapters are posted, Tears, Tender Geralt, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Two gay dads, Wet Dream, Yen is a bitch in this, Yennefer is a badass lawyer, baby ciri, but also an asshole sometimes, child services, daddy/daughter feels, healing relationship, hospital angst, i gave myself cavities writing this, jaskier is a sweetie, medical coma, physical injuries, squalor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:53:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spectreink91/pseuds/spectreink91
Summary: Bail-bondsman Geralt’s life turns upside down when he and his adopted-daughter Ciri are t-boned in a car accident, leaving Ciri mortally-wounded and her life hanging in the balance.As if this wasn’t enough, his self-made musician ex Jaskier shows up at the ER to support him, and Geralt is sharply reminded how much he regrets breaking up with him.Geralt is forced to deal with how much he suffocates his emotions, and how to reach out to others when he needs help.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 302





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is gonna get intense, y’all. It started as a one-off that morphed into a several-chaptered behemoth, so buckle up. I will update the tags as I go, and will provide trigger warnings when necessary. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Geralt shifted in the waiting room chair, wincing at the sharp tug on his sides from the unforgiving plastic arms. He turned to face the corner, refusing to give himself the comfort of standing. 

Not until he had news about Ciri. 

He pressed his forehead against his fist, rubbing his fingertips over the bridge of his nose. He was completely and utterly drained, heavy enough from guilt and the adrenaline dump of exhaustion that he felt like he would sink through the floor. 

The accident wasn’t technically his fault—the police had already arrested the drunk who hit them—but Geralt should have been paying more attention. If he’d just swerved in time, or threw himself over her before the truck completely destroyed her side of the car. 

He’d only looked away for a second, laughing at one of Ciri’s ridiculous jokes, when the white flash of headlights glared through the window just before the glass shattered, Geralt’s hand barely reaching in time to shield the ten year-old’s face from the blow and the splintered glass. 

Not that it did much with how hard the bastard hit them. 

Ciri was unconscious when Geralt came to. His side of the truck was almost completely unscathed, but her door was unusable. He shook his head, making a very quick and very sloppy check of his faculties to make sure he didn’t paralyze himself, and managed to unbuckle Ciri’s seatbelt under the broken glass and twisted metal. He didn’t dare move her further, terrified of causing her worse harm, and after checking her pulse with a light touch on her neck, Geralt dialed 911 on his cell. 

That was nearly eight hours ago. 

He’d moved twice—once to the bathroom, and once to the water fountain—since they carted Ciri in on a stretcher, choking and coughing and spitting up blood, and rushed her to the back. 

They refused to let him back to see her after patching up the cuts on his forehead and giving him an arm sling, which was probably for the best. If he saw them working on her, he might lose control. 

Though it had been two decades since his military ops, every possible injury flashed through his thoughts as they would in the field—her being unconscious was the least shocking, most likely a concussion. When she came to suddenly, screaming and shrieking and fighting the paramedics until Geralt caught her attention long enough to calm her down, she heaved and started spitting up blood, which could mean any number of things—and none of them were good. A cracked rib puncturing a lung or her stomach, internal bleeding, crushed windpipe—

He was spiraling again—his sight blurred and he knew he needed to eat and drink but he couldn’t bear to move. 

He needed to be here when they had an update. 

He pinched his eyes shut to rub them clear again when he stilled at the startling sense of comfort at a delightfully annoying key ring jingle. The same set of keys cluttered with the same set of keychains for years. 

He’d know that jingle anywhere. 

“Excuse me!” a young man gasped as he ran to a stop at the information desk, golden brown curls a disparaged mess on top of his head and his shirt wrinkled and untucked, put on in a hurry. “I need to find Geralt and Ciri Rivia—I got a call that they were taken here.” 

“Jaskier?” Geralt called over his shoulder. 

Jaskier gasped, mouth wide. 

“Geralt, thank god!” 

He ran over and went to throw his arms around him but stopped short when he saw Geralt’s right arm in a sling. 

“Oh Geralt—“ he paused, clearing this throat. “When Eskel texted me I didn’t believe him. He’s always been such an asshole that I thought it was a cruel joke. But then Yen called, and I knew nothing short of nuclear disaster would make her contact me.”

He paused, out of breath, waiting for any reply Geralt would give him. 

Geralt couldn’t think of any that didn’t involve cussing him out or bursting into tears, so he curled back into his hand, shutting his eyes against the burning glare of the fluorescent lights and the putrid pattern of teal lime green carpet under his feet. 

Jaskier sat with one chair between them, its frame creaking, and Geralt relaxed despite himself. 

They were falling back into a cadence Geralt forgot they had...him brooding in self-imposed silence and Jaskier refusing to be bothered by it, even now.

He hadn’t seen the self-made musician in nearly a year. Though Ciri still kept in near-daily contact with Jaskier since he and Geralt broke up, Geralt hadn’t looked at him or heard his voice in ages. 

It was weeks after Geralt told Jaskier to go fuck himself that he found out Yen made up the whole thing. Geralt should’ve known it was Yen’s desperate ploy to try and get back with him. 

It was far too late to apologize or even attempt to make amends to Jaskier. There were too many unforgivable things Geralt said to him. 

Jaskier was humming...he was always humming, whether it was one of his own songs or something else, and Geralt felt the painful tension in his back start to ease at the sound, as though his muscles remembered how often Jas massaged healing oils and lotions into his shoulders on days when they gave him fits. 

Geralt really hadn’t deserved him. 

A minute later, the humming stopped, the sudden eerie silence of the late night hospital sending shivers down his spine. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier started. “...Is it alright if I asked what happened? Eskel and Yen weren’t generous with their details, and I was afraid to ask them.”

Geralt’s heart warmed at the implication that, despite everything, Jaskier still wasn’t afraid of him. 

He was the only lover Geralt ever had who never flinched once around him. 

It was a gift Geralt took advantage of. 

He quickly shoved the affection aside and met Jaskier’s eye, only just now noticing he was bare-chested without an undershirt and was in pajama pants and flip flops. There was no doubt that Jaskier was woken up for this and rushed out in whatever clothes he could throw on. 

Geralt fought the temptation to smooth his hand through those delightfully rebellious curls like he used to do. 

“Car accident,” Geralt’s voice grated, dry from no liquid for so long. He tried to clear his throat, which only made it worse. “T-boned on Ciri’s side. Drunk driver. The bastard’s booked and sitting in jail.”

Jaskier’s brows met, and his hands twitched and fiddled in his lap. Geralt knew it was taking all of Jaskier’s willpower not to take his hand, to take him, and hold him.

Or maybe Geralt was only seeing what he wanted to see. 

Dammit. Lack of sleep, lack of food, and plain ol’ regret—from giving up the best thing, next to Ciri, that ever happened to him—was making him soft. 

He needed sleep. And a good hard punch to the face. 

Jaskier was watching him with that same silent adoration he always did when Geralt found the energy to speak more than clips of sentences to him. Or maybe it just felt like adoration because of the undivided attention Jaskier gave him, giving his stumbling words more worth than anyone he’d ever met. 

“Fuck, what an awful night,” Jaskier breathed. “Geralt...I’m so sorry.”

For reasons he refused to admit to, that kindness, that tenderness, that apology Geralt didn’t deserve made him so fucking angry.

“Why the fuck are you here, Jaskier?”

He hated to admit, even to himself, how relieved he was that Jaskier was here. 

Especially after how he treated him. 

Jaskier sighed, feet sliding in and out of his flip flops. “Because you’re here.”

Geralt scoffed. “Not exactly the response I expected. I’d meant it when I told you to fuck off.” 

Jaskier raised his brow, voice hard. 

“Do you mean it now, though?” 

Geralt grit his teeth.

Dammit. 

Jaskier still knew him too well. 

The musician bit his lip. “Stop being an asshole and...just let me be here for you, and for her.” He paused, cheeks red. “Unless my being here bothers you that much. Then I’ll go.”

Geralt shook his head, raising it from his hand. 

“You can stay...I’m sorry. It’s been eight hours and I haven’t had one update.” He hesitated. “I think they’re afraid to talk to me.” 

Jaskier’s jaw dropped and his anger returned. 

“Eight hours?! Oh, fuck no.” 

“Jas, don’t bother them—“ 

But the musician was already stomping over to the admin desk, throwing his hands in the air and demanding in every high pitched tantrum he could think of to have a doctor out here in the next five minutes or he was going to call his lawyer. Geralt knew him too well to think that was just an exaggeration and he hoped for the hospital’s sake that they listened. 

Geralt couldn’t blame the staff; between his height, his bulk, and the less-than-nondescript scar tearing a jagged line down his eye and cheek, he didn’t exude gentle, approachable, or nice. Though he liked to think he’d gotten better about that, since Ciri. And Jaskier. 

The latter returned with a triumphant skip in his flopping sandalled step and sat in the chair directly beside him. Geralt didn’t realize how cold he was until he shivered at the heat radiating off of Jaskier’s body. 

He suddenly wanted nothing more than to bury himself in that warmth. Even without the incredible, soul-tearing sex, or the tender, tear filled confessions that followed, more words and truths spilling from Geralt’s lips than he’d ever given or told to anyone else...just to be near him again...to feel like who he used to be when he was with Jaskier. Because Jaskier saw the unhinged, unmasked, unwounded Geralt that he’d thought was long dead. 

Not even Yen knew that side of him. 

He shut his eyes again, swaying and catching himself in his hand. 

“When did you eat last, Geralt?” 

Though he tried to hide his worry, Geralt heard it tightening Jaskier’s throat. 

He didn’t even know what time it was. 

“Sometime yesterday, I think. I don’t remember.”

Jaskier didn’t ask—broken up or not, he didn’t need to ask—and scooped Geralt up with one hand around his waist and the other carefully framing his slung arm. 

“Nurse—where’s the cafeteria?” Jaskier barked. 

The nurse grunted as she pointed down the far hallway, and Jaskier continued,

“Tell that doctor we’ll be getting a much needed meal...and that if I haven’t seen him within the next fifteen minutes, I’m calling every media outlet in town to inform them that hospital staff here care so little for the public that they’re leaving a veteran out to dry about his fatally wounded daughter. Fucking disgraceful.”

Geralt chuckled dryly, enjoying Jaskier’s speech and its welcome distraction as he was walked very slowly across the room. He actually laughed when the nurse thought they were far enough down the hallway to not see her flip them off, and Jaskier returned the favor. 

Jaskier beamed at Geralt’s laughter and stroked the inside of his waist, callous-tipped fingers sending both shivers and warmth down his side through his T-shirt. Geralt wasn’t sure if the touch was subconscious or not, but he flushed all the same. 

“I missed you,” he choked out through the pain searing up his arm. 

What the fuck was wrong with him—why would he just burst out with that? He needed to stay focused on Ciri and nothing else. 

Jaskier smiled, tender and sad, but he didn’t reply in kind. Even he had his limits. And Geralt knew all too well how badly he’d hurt him. 

“Let’s get some food in you before you pass out,” Jaskier said. 

~~~~~~~~

The food was better than Geralt expected, though it was a pain to eat with his left hand. Jaskier ordered him a triple-decker cheeseburger and an avalanche of fries and ordered soup and salad for himself, Geralt’s mouth quirking into a smile when it took all of thirty seconds for Jaskier to start taking fries off his plate, like he always does. 

Did. Like he always did. 

Geralt watched the clock on the wall as the threatened 15 minutes passed and thankfully Jaskier didn’t notice; Geralt was far too exhausted to defend him if security got involved if/when Jaskier lost his temper again. 

Nearly an hour had passed, Jaskier halfway through eating the chocolate cake he insisted on buying for Geralt, when one of the ER docs stepped into the cafeteria in dressed-down scrubs, a face mask hanging on one ear. 

“Triss?!” Jaskier exclaimed over a forkful of chocolate frosting. “Since when have you been doctoring here?” 

“Long enough to be glad your usual escapades haven’t reached my ears yet,” she laughed, approaching the table and pausing as Geralt stood. 

“Hey, Triss,” he murmured, wincing. 

“Do you two know each other?” Jaskier asked. 

Geralt nodded, something long buried in his heart aching at the kind glance Triss gave him. 

“Yeah...from a long time ago.” He met Jaskier’s confused glance. “We met in Spec Ops in the Corps. She patched me up after my first bullet wound.”

“And the second, and the third,” the surgeon chuckled dryly. “You were a magnet for disaster.” She winced at her words and said, “Sorry, Geralt.”

“Just tell me, Triss,” Geralt said. “I should’ve known there was a reason you wouldn’t come out to see me.”

She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. “My attending was supposed to let you know—“ She paused, a loose strand of her dark brown curls falling in front of her eyes. “I’ll be reporting him for that.” 

Geralt’s stomach knotted and he started to feel faint. 

Triss was as professional a doctor he’d ever met, in or out of the service. It must be far worse than even he expected if she was beating around the bush like this. 

“Get on with it, Triss.”

“She’s...” The doctor cleared her throat. “She’s still in surgery. There was a lot more internal bleeding than we initially thought...and her left lung was partially collapsed.”

“Any head trauma?” Geralt bit, eyes closed tight. 

“...Yes. But compared to her other injuries, it’s minimal.”

“What are the chances of survival?” Geralt snapped. “Don’t pussy foot around me, Triss. Treat me like you would any other patient. What are her chances?”

Triss hesitated again, eyes dropping. 

“Not good. But anything is possible, Geralt,” she murmured. She lifted her head. “We’ll know more when she’s out of surgery.”

Triss tucked the loose bang back into her scrub headcover and cleared her throat. 

“It’ll be at least a few more hours before she’s out of surgery,” she continued, some confidence returning to her voice. “If you’re finished down here, I’m happy to take you both upstairs with me.” 

Geralt almost forgot Jaskier behind him until his gentle hand pressed at the small of his back, just enough to remind him he was there. 

“Do you want me to stay, Geralt?” he asked. 

He nodded crisply, vision swimming. 

...What would he do if he lost her?

A warm, trembling hand slipped into Geralt’s and gently pressed. 

“C’mon...let’s get comfy in the ICU waiting room. At least you won’t have to put up with that horrid green carpet up there.”

Triss smiled a pained smile and nodded, motioning for them to go ahead of her. 

Geralt didn’t remember walking up to the other waiting room, past the glaring Emergency Room lobby nurse, or laying down on a purloined pillow in Jaskier’s lap. But the next thing he knew, his eyes were closing, and he was out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Geralt and Jaskier wait for news on Ciri’s condition, Geralt remembers the day he first met her as an infant, and just how far he went to keep her safe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter delves into a lot of daddy/daughter fluff, as well as some tragic circumstances in Ciri’s background. Though it’s not explicit, abuse, starvation, and neglect are talked about and shown. 
> 
> Though not graphic, I’ll put a TRIGGER WARNING here for child abuse/neglect. 
> 
> Also, Geralt is just the absolute sweetest with her and I LOVED writing this one.

_Ten Years Ago_

It was nearly 10 at night, and Geralt was exhausted. 

Nursing a torn lip and a sore ankle from wrestling the ten-time murderer over a highway embankment and into a trash-clogged concrete ravine, he helped himself to a cup of ridiculously strong coffee in the sheriff’s office break room and shuddered at the first sip, dumping in a heap of sugar and a swirl of creamer until it was bearable to drink. 

He’d just finished the bounty reward paperwork after dumping the asshole at the jail to be processed (who bore two black eyes and at least three cracked ribs for his trouble), and stopped by the patrol unit to make good on his promise to check in with Nenneke. 

He heard the telltale squeak of the deputy’s boots and turned the corner to the patrol office, styrofoam coffee cup in hand, and he stopped, stunned. 

There was a toe-head baby, no more than three weeks old if he had to guess, burrowed in the niche of Deputy Nenneke’s uniformed-shoulder and screaming at a pitch that was impressive for her size. 

A friend who’d been struck by lightning once described the sensation to him in graphic detail—rooted to the ground in a startling and frightening surrender to both gravity and the force of nature’s electricity coursing through his veins, making him ready to both burst into flames and sink into the earth. 

Geralt felt it now seeing that scrunched, red face and hearing that coughing, soul-churning cry. Despite her state of upset, and maybe even because of it, Geralt felt his heart ache and yearn with something he hadn’t remembered—hadn’t wanted to remember—in a very long time. 

He shook it off, ignoring the burning on his hand from spilling his coffee in his abrupt step and chuckled when the older woman holding the baby met his eye and groaned.

“Oh, fabulous,” Nenneke grumbled, bouncing rhythmically with the baby still screeching on her chest. “Now I have to deal with a whining nuisance AND a crying baby all night.”

Geralt laughed and sat with exaggerated comfort on the side of her desk and tossed his nearly empty coffee cup in her trash can. 

“Well, Nenneke, keeping yourself busy as always,” Geralt said, chuckling at her exasperated sigh. “Taking up babysitting to supplement your paycheck?” 

She sneered and wagged her head, blowing the white bangs out of her eyes and sighing as she moved the baby from one shoulder to the other, the infant’s wails only increasing in pitch. 

“Did ya catch the bastard?” she asked. “Unless that busted lip was Yennefer reminding you why you ended it.” 

Geralt chuckled. “I got him. Have the signed warrant slip in my pocket and everything.”

“I knew only you’d catch Eredin—what was the bounty on him now?”

He couldn’t help a sheepish smile. 

“Hundred grand. I’ll finally be able to buy a house and pay off my truck,” he said, raising his normally-quiet voice over the baby’s cries. 

He couldn’t understand why his arms itched to reach out for her. 

Nenneke smiled through her tangible exhaustion. 

“I’m awful proud of you, kid. Not only for getting that scum off the streets, but for proving, yet again, that you’re the best damn bounty hunter around.” 

At 35, Geralt wasn’t exactly a kid, but Nenneke had the career, the experience, and the history to call him whatever she liked. 

It seemed like a lifetime ago now, but she’d been his Field Training Officer in the brief year he was a cop after leaving the Corps. Took good care of him, too—when he realized that he couldn’t handle the rigidity of the law, and the dark underbelly beneath, she helped him find what path suited him—fifteen years later, and he was still one of only three bondsman the department called without hesitation, in no small part due to Nenneke’s ringing endorsement and support. 

His brows met in confusion when he noticed a diaper bag in front of Nenneke’s computer, catching a half-full bottle as it rolled off the edge at Nenneke’s bouncing attempt to calm the infant. 

She brushed her hand on the babe’s little back, the cries not ceasing a bit except when she inhaled to start screaming again. 

“No, I didn’t up and adopt a kid at 62 years old,” she replied to his silent question. “These are extras from Iola’s youngest. Child Services won’t be here for hours, and I couldn’t bear to leave this little one without some clean clothes and some formula.”

Nenneke was one of the strongest and most resilient women—or people, period—that Geralt had ever met, but everyone had their soft spots, and Nenneke’s was with the kids. She’d claim otherwise, but he knew without asking that she’d done this before. 

“I’ve fed her and changed her and rocked her from here to the end of the station and back for almost three hours,” she continued, exhaustion making her voice ragged. “Little one doesn’t know she’s safe now. She won’t stop wailing, and I don’t have the heart to even be irritated with her, poor thing.”

She must’ve seen more in Geralt’s awed stare than he’d meant to reveal, because she caught his eye, smiled that crooked, knowing smile, and pulled the babe from her shoulder to hold her over Geralt’s lap, his hands extending out of reflex to catch her. 

“Here, Geralt, take her—if I don’t run to the bathroom this instant I’m gonna wet my pants.”

Geralt tried to say no, he couldn’t, he hadn’t ever held a baby, but Nenneke was already sprinting down the hall and the baby was cradled awkwardly in his hands. 

To his great shock, the babe stopped crying the second he took her, and though she didn’t look none too thrilled about being held so clumsily, she stared up at him with curiosity and ease. 

Tufts of white blonde hair stuck up on the top of her head and he couldn’t help stroking his fingers through it, and chuckled when the baby’s eyes grew wider and she hiccuped a burp, watching at him in confused consternation. 

She started crying again, wriggling in his hold and looking up at him with those big blue wet eyes and that trembling lip, and he traced his thumb gently along her cheek, lifting her up into the crook of his neck and cradling her against his bulletproof vest. He almost asked someone to hold her so he could take it off, but it didn’t seem to bother her at all; she fell asleep as soon as he held her back with his hand, her head resting limply against his shoulder and her soft breath brushing his neck. 

She was small—too small, if Geralt’s guess at her age was accurate. She was wrapped in a blue and yellow blanket but wasn’t wearing a onesie, and when Geralt adjusted her, he saw the diaper she had on was much too big for her. He didn’t want to think about the state of the diaper Nenneke changed her out of when the baby was first brought in. 

“Hey, Mousesack—“ Geralt called across the room, terrified to move in case he woke her up. He cocked his head to the sleeping babe and asked, “What’s her name?” 

The property tech sorted through a pile of paperwork on the counter next to him and said, “Uh...Ciri. She was found next to her drugged-up parents. They OD’d yesterday and weren’t found until this afternoon.”

The tech shrugged, the story an apparently regular tale, but it plunged a dagger straight through Geralt’s heart. 

He could only imagine the state Ciri was found in, and felt overwhelming gratitude for Nenneke taking care of her. 

He balanced Ciri against his chest with his forearm and tucked a loose wet wipe back inside the pouch beside the diaper bag and clicked the lid shut, taking one of the bottles in hand and shaking it gently to swirl the formula. 

Ciri was content as could be, cradled up in his neck and asleep as though all the world weren’t a danger for her.

While deciding if he wanted to wake her up to feed her, Ciri adjusted and suckled and cooed, all very quiet sounds, but loud for him right beside his ear, and which made something far too human clench in his chest. 

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he’d touched somebody without wrestling them, harming them, arresting them. Or the last time someone touched him and didn’t flinch. 

Even if it hadn’t been nearly five years since he’d been with Yen, and at least two since he’d been with anyone, period. 

Baby or not, it sent something warm and forgiving through his gut to have Ciri so relaxed against him. As though she trusted him. 

Turning the seat so Mousesack wouldn’t see him, he leaned over just enough to place a tiny kiss on Ciri’s now calm forehead, relishing in the minute twitch of reaction she gave him while still fast asleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Apparently Nenneke got called into a meeting or something because an hour had passed and she still hadn’t come back. 

Not that Geralt minded in the least—he nearly forgot she was gone. Ciri had woken up after about 20 minutes asleep and grumbled and struggled and whined, Geralt worried at her agitation and red face until his nose crinkled at the smell and realized what was happening. 

She nearly filled the diaper and by the time she was done, she was happy again, gurgling and cooing and fidgeting in her mess. 

Geralt steeled himself against the nearly-overpowering smell and balanced her on his chest, standing and digging through the blankets and onesies in the bag until he found a clean diaper. He cleared a place on Nenneke’s desk and spread Ciri’s blanket down and laid her squirming form on it. 

“You’ll have to excuse me, Ciri,” Geralt murmured, holding onto her toes as she waggled her feet back and forth. “I’ve never changed a diaper before so I’ll try my best to do it right.” 

A booming voice laughed behind him. “Why are you talking to her like she can understand you? She’s prolly got enough drugs in her system to make you look like a monster.”

Geralt’s hands stilled on the velcro tabs on the diaper, scowl breaking into a smile at Ciri’s gurgle and wiggle under his fingers. 

“What, you’re too good to talk to your brother? This drug baby’s more important than me now?”

“Glad you’re taking the news so well, Eskel,” Geralt replied, still not turning and hoisting Ciri up by her ankles to slide the soiled diaper out of the way and set the clean diaper down. 

Ciri coughed and giggled and squirmed even more, Geralt beaming from ear to ear as she watched him, her giggle becoming a crying whimper as he quickly cleaned her with a couple of wipes and set her down on the diaper. 

Wrapping the fresh diaper around her and disposing of the soiled diaper and wipes, he grinned at Ciri’s tiny hands grabbing his chin and rubbing against his scruff where he leaned over her. 

“There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?” Geralt asked her, her lower lip still trembling and her little bare chest rising and falling with her whimpering breath. 

He picked her up, laying her against his chest and wrapping the blanket back around her, rubbing his hand through the fabric to keep her from getting cold. 

“Thought the only thing you were good at were bullet holes and black eyes—glad diaper changing is on the coveted bounty hunter protocol,” Eskel growled. 

Geralt’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t say anything as he turned, tucking the edge of the blanket under Ciri’s chin and bringing her closer to him, the baby already fallen back asleep. 

He and Eskel weren’t technically brothers—by blood or otherwise. They’d grown up together, fighting for survival in the same orphanage, helping each other steal food, clothes, blankets—anything the other kids in the house needed. It wasn’t that Geralt didn’t acknowledge the attachment they shared without any choice, but when Eskel became a cop, he became the type of person Geralt made a point of avoiding. 

Whereas Nenneke’s kindness and charity and inability to put up with assholes only solidified with her badge and authority, Eskel’s arrogance, cruelty, and hatred of humanity grew far worse. 

It was fortunate that Geralt only ran into him rarely, when bail bondsman duties brought him to the office. Though Eskel attempted to rebuild a hybrid friendship between them, Geralt couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. 

“What are you still doing here, anyway? Didn’t you already make your payday?” Eskel hissed. “It wasn’t enough to get rich off the department, uh? Ya had to steal our druggies’ babies, too?”

Eskel laughed a loud, wicked laugh, and Geralt hovered his hand over Ciri’s ear, anger darkening his voice. 

“If you wake her up, I’ll throw you through the nearest window.” 

Eskel laughed until he caught Geralt’s eye. He didn’t need to repeat the threat he knew was clearly seen on his face. 

“Alright, alright,” Eskel replied, much quieter, “I’ll leave you to whatever the hell charity work you’re doing. We’ve all gotta clear our guilty consciences some way, huh?” 

Geralt breathed a sigh of relief when the glass door closed behind Eskel. Mousesack grumbled something about Eskel needing to get laid, and Geralt chuckled quietly, sighing in heart-wringing comfort at Ciri’s limp little feet brushing against him. 

He sat back down in Nenneke’s chair, vision reeling as the events of the past week—tracking Eredin, chasing him across a state and a half, and fighting one of the toughest fights Geralt had in years—drained him of any energy he had. One hand on his holster, the other on Ciri, his eyes drifted shut and he fell asleep. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt was woken by a sharp tug on his vest—fortunately he had control of his reflexes, or the hand’s owner would have been thrown across the room. He opened his eyes to a very surly woman, brown hair pulled tight into a bun on the back of her head, a salt and pepper dress pulled into sharp lines on her elbows and hips, and a large black briefcase clasped tight in her right hand.

Mousesack stood beside her, raising his hand in innocence when it released Geralt’s vest. 

“Sorry, Rivia—this is Fringilla with Child Services. She’s here to take Ciri to her foster home.”

Geralt stood, not moving his hand from where it still held the sleeping Ciri against him. 

“Nenneke said it would be hours before Child Services arrived,” Geralt muttered tightly, gut twisting. He didn’t doubt Fringilla had all the credentials in the world to prove her employment, but with one look, he didn’t trust her. When she met his eye, his skin crawled, and he drew Ciri closer. 

“I’m just trying to do my job, _sir_ ,” Fringilla replied, biting the last word. 

As though understanding what was being said, Ciri wriggled and squirmed and whimpered sleepily, waking up and leaning back with a heavy-headed wobble to look up at Geralt with confused and tired eyes. 

Fringilla set her briefcase down and reached for Ciri, Geralt retracting backward into the desk and making Ciri cry. 

“She’s legit, Geralt,” Mousesack said, glancing to the woman and back. “I’ve worked with her before.”

Geralt shifted from one foot the other, wincing at the reminder of his forgotten sore ankle. He looked down at Ciri, blue eyes wet with tears again and cries steadily increasing in volume as he lifted her higher up on his chest to try and calm her down. 

Looking past the babe to Fringilla, Geralt’s gut hardened, the Services worker glaring at him as though trying to burn a hole through him. 

“Geralt,” Mousesack urged. “Come on.” 

He knew he couldn’t stop them from taking her, and though everything in his gut screamed at him not to let her go, there wasn’t any way he could prove that this was very, very wrong. 

He breathed in, and out, and held Ciri to his eye level, the baby still crying and her face as red and wrinkled as it had been when he first saw her a couple of hours before. 

He swallowed hard, clearing his throat and meeting her distressed eyes. 

“Well, Ciri...I guess this is goodbye.”

Ciri hiccuped as though responding and he cupped the back of her head to keep her from falling backward. 

“Take care of yourself, little one,” he whispered, voice tight. 

He wasn’t going to cry. He wasn’t. 

“Give her to me,” Fringilla snapped. 

He did. And never felt sicker in his life. 

The woman pressed Ciri to her shoulder, picked up her briefcase, and walked out of the office, Ciri’s shrieking cries and wails shards of stinging glass thrust into his chest over and over again—Geralt not hearing or seeing anything but Ciri’s face and her piercing cry, getting farther and farther away until Fringilla turned the corner and they both disappeared from view. 

Mousesack may have said something—Geralt didn’t hear him, and didn’t attempt to respond. The property tech left the room and Geralt stood stock still, unable to move, burning tears in his eyes. 

He didn’t notice Nenneke had returned until she came up behind him and said, 

“...Geralt?” 

He turned and Nenneke gaped at his empty arms and then at the chair, the desk, back and forth across the room as though Ciri was hidden in a drawer or behind a plant. 

“Where is she?!”

Geralt hesitated with a thick swallow and cleared his dry voice enough to say, “—Child Services.” 

He should’ve added something dry and sarcastic—to show that he really didn’t care. 

But he couldn’t. 

All he could see—and feel—was the empty space in his arms he never realized was there. 

“Dammit!” Nenneke shouted, kicking her desk hard, the clang of the metal making Geralt jump. “They were supposed to wait!”

She spun around sharply. “Mousesack, you brown-nosing asswipe, I told you to call me first!” she raged as she pounded down the hallway to the property room. 

Geralt didn’t wait for her to come back. He snuck out the back door, down the metal steps, and to the back alley where he’d parked. Starting his truck and pulling out onto the street, he rolled down his windows to drown in the cool night air, turned on his radio and ignored the reason his vision swam as he drove home, taking the long route, and trying to mute the memory of Ciri’s shrieks in his ear. 

~~~~~~~~~~

It was 1 am when Geralt picked up his phone and dialed. 

“Deputy Lambert.”

“Lambert—it’s Geralt.”

“Geralt, you ol’ son of a bitch! I heard about Eredin. Congrats, brother. I’m real glad you got the bounty and not some sleaze bag.” 

“Thanks, brother. Listen, I need a favor.”

The patrol car radio went off and Geralt waited as Lambert answered the dispatch call, and a minute later the deputy got back on the line and said, “Sure, Geralt, what is it?”

He hesitated, clearing his throat. 

“Do you trust me?”

There was a pause at the loaded phrase—Lambert and Geralt went back nearly as far as Eskel, but Geralt met Lambert in the Corps, and trusted him far more. They’d saved each other’s asses countless times, and whenever they needed help they couldn’t ask for from anyone else, they started with that question. 

Lambert replied in a much more serious tone. 

“Yeah. I trust you.” The volume on his radio grew quieter. “What do you need?”

“The address of a foster home...a baby, Ciri, was taken there tonight and I have the worst feeling she won’t survive the week.”

There was silence, followed by the clicks of a keyboard. 

“Ciri Cintra,” Lambert murmured. “Holy shit, looking at the trailer where she was found, I’m surprised she’s alive.”

Geralt’s heart clenched and he said, “Can you see the foster address?” 

Lambert paused, a long breath exhaling. Geralt felt sick...Lambert had never said no when Geralt really needed help but everyone had their limits. 

When he still didn’t reply, Geralt said, “Just an address, Lambert. I have to make sure she’s okay. I can’t explain why, but I have to.” 

“No problem, brother. I meant it when I said I trust you. I’ll send you the address.” A few more keyboard clicks and he said, “I didn’t hesitate because I wasn’t going to give it to you—I hesitated because of the name of the foster family. You’ve arrested him before—he was one of your chronic bail jumpers.” 

Geralt was halfway through tying his boots and stopped.

“Who is it?”

He sighed. “...Cahir.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt shut off his truck, pulling his revolver out of its holster and checking the chambers. The house wasn’t even a house—it was a trailer so weather-beaten and water damaged, the plastic casing was cracked and its metal frame rusted. 

After cursing every English swear word possible and a few in Russian even Lambert didn’t know, Geralt googled the address he sent him and sped there in his truck. 

Cahir was almost as bad as Eredin, but had less success and less notoriety. But that didn’t mean Ciri wasn’t in grave danger being there.

Cahir’s mother must’ve started taking fosters and lied about her son still living there. How in the hell that was possible was beyond him but he needed to focus on nothing else but getting Ciri out of there, by any means necessary. Hopefully that wouldn’t involve him discharging his weapon, but with how often he’d arrested this asshole, it was a possibility. 

He holstered his gun and got out of his truck, locking his door and crossing the street. He went straight to the door and pressed his ear to it, catching the muffled sounds of a tv in the background and multiple voices, no doubt belonging to other kids. He snuck to the front window and looked into the small kitchen to try and get his bearings on what was inside. 

His stomach fell to his knees. 

Ciri was screaming at the top of her lungs, alone on the countertop four feet off the ground, surrounded by dirty napkins, food wrappers, and milk jugs, her diaper full and leaking. 

Geralt nearly tore the front door off its hinges, gun drawn as he entered the trailer, several toddlers and kids scattering to the back corner, only a couple of them fully-clothed and all of them malnourished and staring at him in that stilted silence that abused kids used to keep themselves safe. 

Cahir jumped up from his chair in front of the tv in the small living room, shirtless and sagging jeans on his hips, a bottle of Jack Daniels in his hand and his mother—a woman Geralt knew very well from how often she attacked him when he arrested her son—passed out in the rocking chair in the opposite corner, lit cigarette hanging from her lip. 

“Rivia?!” Cahir screeched. “I’m out on bail, you can’t arrest me! This is trespassing, I’m calling the cops!” 

Geralt grabbed him by the throat and held the pistol’s barrel to his forehead. 

“I’m not here for you, Cahir—I’m here for her.”

He let him go and walked to the kitchen, sliding his free hand under Ciri’s back and picking her up, laying her against his chest and murmuring,

“It’s alright, baby—it’s alright. I’ve got you and I’m getting you out of here, I promise.”

Cahir had relaxed until Geralt returned to the walkway, the serial fugitive’s hands flying up again at Geralt’s raised pistol, until Cahir started laughing. 

“You’ve really lost your mind, haven’t you?” he spat. “Breaking and entering AND kidnapping? After making the biggest bust of your career?”

Geralt growled at him. 

“I’m gonna holster my gun and reach for my wallet. You even think about attacking me, grabbing her, or going for a phone, and you’ll wish you’d stayed in prison.” 

Cahir’s vile smile disappeared and he nodded, shoulders dropping. 

Geralt had a forearm blade hidden under his shirt sleeve, but Cahir didn’t need to know that. 

Ciri was still screeching and screaming, her poor little voice strained and dry and cracked, and Geralt could feel her diaper leaking down his jeans, his ire at her state of upset rising with every breath as he finally pulled out his wallet. He switched arms to redraw his pistol and used the hand tucked against Ciri to pull out several hundred notes from his billfold. 

Cahir’s eyes lit up greedily and he stepped forward, yelping and jumping back when Geralt raised his pistol again. 

“Here’s the deal, Cahir. You’ve never seen Ciri and you’ve never heard of her. There was a mistake in the paperwork. Fringilla never came here, and there was never a deal you got her into for the fosters’ subsidy checks.”

Cahir’s jaw dropped at Geralt’s apparently accurate assumption and he nodded eagerly, practically drooling at the bills in Geralt’s fingers. 

“Yeah, yeah, you got it, Rivia! Whatever you say.” 

He tossed the hundreds at Cahir’s feet and the criminal dove after them, shoving them in his pockets. 

Geralt met eyes with one of the kids in the corner of the trailer and winked, and the little girl nodded. 

As Cahir stood back up, Geralt tucked Ciri under his chin and said, “Now I’m going to walk out of here and you aren’t going to follow me. You won’t call the police because I was never here. Understand?”

The man nodded again and Geralt clicked open the trailer door, not turning to face the street until the door was closed and he was nearly to his truck. 

Getting inside and locking the door, Geralt shushed Ciri gently as he dialed 911 on his cell and said, “Yes, I’ve heard some shouting and screaming from my neighbor’s house...I think there was a break in.”

Geralt made the call anonymously, using a higher pitched voice, knowing that all the deputies on shift would need to get those kids out of there was to walk in and see the squalor and obvious neglect. 

He wasn’t as clever as he’d initially thought because less than two minutes after the call, Nenneke texted him:

_WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO?! ___

__Humming to Ciri and rocking her gently back and forth, Geralt replied,_ _

___Bring the diaper bag and a car seat._ _ _

__~~~~~~~~~~~~_ _

__Even if Geralt hadn’t planned on driving them a few blocks away from the scene to avoid being caught, Ciri’s diaper couldn’t wait, so he tucked her tight against his chest, prayed to every deity he could think of that they wouldn’t be in a car accident, and drove at about 10 miles an hour down the road to the convenience store nearby. Parking in the farthest spot and texting Nenneke to let her know, he changed Ciri on the hood of his truck and wrapped her in one of his old T-shirts left in the back seat._ _

__By that time Nenneke showed up an hour later, Ciri had cried herself out and was cuddled against Geralt’s neck, drool trickling past his shirt and down his chest._ _

__“Well, aren’t you just the picture of domestic bliss,” she said as she got out of the car and opened the passenger door, where the diaper bag was sitting in a car seat._ _

__He chuckled, feeling more at ease with her smiling at him. He knew, when he’d come up with the semblances of his plan, that it might backfire in the worst ways, but if she was here and not arresting him, then there was hope he’d get away with this._ _

__“You wanna tell me what happened?” she asked as she shut her car door._ _

__“I just wanted her to be safe,” he said, stroking baby Ciri’s back and kissing her forehead for the hundredth time that night._ _

__Nenneke paused halfway to his truck and sighed, eyes warm._ _

__She held out her arms and Geralt handed Ciri to her, letting her put a fresh diaper and a onesie on the infant and handing Geralt a pacifier tied to the end of a plastic clip._ _

__“You always were too tender for this work—but maybe that’s a good thing.” She buckled the carseat into the cab of his truck and set the diaper bag beside it, motioning him over and showing him how to use it properly as they buckled Ciri in._ _

__“That car seat is expired, by the way. Don’t go anywhere else until you’ve got a new one.”_ _

__He clipped the pacifier to Ciri’s onesie. “Yes, ma’am.”_ _

__“There’s enough formula in the bag to last a month or so, maybe less, and three or four bottles and a few other pacifiers. Iola threw in a couple of toys, too, and a few clothing items. Enough to get y’all settled until you can go shopping proper.”_ _

__Geralt nodded. “Thank you, Nenneke...I’m more grateful than I can say.”_ _

__“Well I should think so.” She scowled at him, though it quickly softened into a smile._ _

__“So I assume I’m not ending this night in a pair of handcuffs?” Geralt asked._ _

__“Oh, didn’t I tell you? The paperwork actually listed you as her foster parent.”_ _

__At his raised brow she insisted, “No, I’m serious, Geralt! That’s why I ripped Mousesack a new asshole. I was going to send her home with you—you looked more enamored with her than I’d ever seen you.”_ _

__She snorted. “But I’ll also ignore the fact that Cahir had $500 on him he couldn’t account for when Lambert arrested him.”_ _

__Geralt grunted with a grateful smile._ _

__“Consider it a donation to his Public Defender,” he said. “And the kids?”_ _

__“Well, your instincts were right—Fringilla was taking a cut from their support checks. She’s been arrested, too. The kids are being picked up to go back to the orphanage as we speak.”_ _

__Geralt’s heart sank, but he knew there was only so much he could do._ _

__He shook his head. “Well...this isn’t how I thought this day would go.”_ _

__Nenneke nudged his arm. “There’s nothing that says you have to keep her forever, but I’m trusting you, Geralt.”_ _

__He nodded. “You won’t be disappointed.“_ _

__~~~~~~~~~~~_ _

___Present Day_ _ _

__Four solid hours had passed since Triss had taken them upstairs._ _

__She’d made it a point to give Geralt an update every hour and even made her attending apologize for not updating him when they first took Ciri back._ _

__Geralt alternated between sitting hunched over his knees, head in his hands, and pacing the room and back, sometimes pausing at the window to watch the city lights twinkle through the night rain streaming down the glass._ _

__Jaskier sat on the floor beside Geralt, leaning against his leg when he sat and waiting in the same spot for when Geralt inevitably paced again. Most of the time he didn’t speak, just hummed quiet tunes as he browsed on his phone, seeming to remember all of Ciri’s favorite songs. As much as it hurt Geralt’s heart to hear them, it also gave him comfort._ _

__With Triss’ fourth update—that Ciri was still in surgery, but that they would hopefully be finished soon—she checked the as-of-yet empty ICU with a quick glance and handed Geralt a small, leather-covered flask._ _

__At his side-eye, she said, “Oh, don’t give me that look. Just finish it off and give it back when you’re done.”_ _

__Geralt smiled. He was feeling more anxious now than he had before he fell asleep in Jaskier’s lap, and was grateful for something to help take the edge off._ _

__Taking a long swig, he cleared his throat, suddenly desperate to break the silence._ _

__“Did I ever tell you about our first night, me and Ciri?”_ _

__Jaskier’s gaze was fond, and he shook his head._ _

__“No, I don’t think so.”_ _

__Geralt handed Jaskier the flask, and he took a sip._ _

__“I had no idea what I was doing beyond the very basics,” Geralt said. “I’d taken care of little kids, back in the orphanage, but never babies...I was scared I’d hurt ‘em accidentally.”_ _

__Jaskier sat in the chair next to him and gave him back the flask, Geralt draining it and screwing the cap back on._ _

__“First few hours were rough. She wouldn’t eat very much and what she did eat, she threw up, until it was easier to just leave my shirt off and carry full size towels with me when I tried to rock her to sleep.”_ _

__He bit his lip, fighting his tears at the memory._ _

__“But then we found our rhythm...she kept a whole bottle down, and I was able to catch a couple hours in my recliner with her propped against my chest, and when she woke me up a couple hours later, her cries were wetter—her chest and throat weren’t so dry—and when she whimpered, it wasn’t so desperate. I cooed and talked to her, reassuring her that we would figure this out, and she let me give her a pacifier and cuddled against me. Only three weeks old, and she already looked so bright-eyed, so aware.”_ _

__He paused, breath exhaling slowly as he stared down the hallway._ _

__“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life than the night I brought her home.”_ _

__He met Jaskier’s eye, and his look was sad._ _

___Except for you, Jas,_ he thought. _ _

__Geralt nearly told him, but wasn’t ready yet._ _

__Jaskier watched him with that knowing look that he’d read all of Geralt’s thoughts and knew exactly what he wanted to say._ _

__The musician smiled, eyes crinkled, and leaned forward to rest his hand on Geralt’s knee._ _

__“I know. It’s okay...you don’t have to say it.” He drew closer, wrapping his arm around Geralt’s shoulders._ _

__Geralt eased against him, having no energy to push him back and not wanting to even if he did. He curled into his ex lover’s shoulder, trying not to remember happier times when he laid in that exact spot just for the sake of smelling nothing but him, and pretending for a while that it was just him and Jaskier and Ciri against the world._ _

__That nothing could tear them apart._ _

__“What if I lose her, Jas?” he choked out._ _

__Jaskier didn’t answer._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okey dokey, I PROMISE there’s Geraskier fluff/delicious smut coming up in the next chapter, as well as more background into their relationship. I’m a sucker for angst, so there’ll be more of that, too. 🤘😎
> 
> (Also apologies for the weird formatting—it wouldn’t let me italics like normal 🤷).


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Less-than-comforting news on Ciri’s condition leaves Geralt shattered, Jaskier the only thing keeping him from losing it completely.
> 
> Another flashback reveals how Geralt and Jaskier met, and just how much their bond was forged through Ciri, and that Geralt does, in fact, have feelings beyond fatherhood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is SO MUCH FLUFF in this one but gawd, I loved writing it. I can’t get enough of these three. 
> 
> Also, I know this has no bearing on the story, but I pictured Jaskier’s bodyguard as the hot ass chick from The Mandalorian. 😝😝😝😝

Jaskier’s hand, rubbing back and forth between Geralt’s shoulder-blades, was the only thing he could concentrate on without screaming. 

Triss had been talking for several minutes, but it felt like hours—each word pressing Geralt further and further into the ground, one boulder after another crushing the air from his lungs. 

A surgeon nicked an artery. They managed to patch it. 

Her pulse rate had spiked, then slowed. 

They nearly had to use the defibrillator on Ciri’s little heart. 

He’d blacked out after that, trying and failing to use the breathing techniques Vesemir taught him in the Corps to keep from collapsing. 

Jaskier fell on his knees beside him when Geralt went from standing to crumbling and nearly hitting the floor. Triss grabbed his arms, Jaskier grabbed his shoulders, and they slowly let him down, until Geralt was left hunched over his knees, breathing shallowly and shaking off Triss’ arms with a curse, leaving Jaskier be as he wrapped his arms around him and urged Geralt to lean on him. 

Once this was over, he’d have to apologize to her. Triss had been a very good friend, those many moons ago. 

_Once this was over._

He came to in time to hear Triss clear her throat and reassure him, from a distance, that Ciri was still alive. 

She was still alive, and they were doing everything they could. 

“It’s going to be a couple more hours, at the very least,” Triss finished, voice defeated. 

Geralt grunted, the closest thing he could manage to a full response, Jaskier’s smaller frame stretched around him and feeling more like home than anything Geralt could remember. 

Triss took her leave with quiet tones, replacing the surgical mask over her mouth, the ICU doors swinging closed behind her. 

It had been nearly nine hours. 

A fresh wave of dizzying nausea made him groan. 

...What if this never ended?

What if this was his fresh hell for the sins of his past? 

He had no idea how much time had passed when Jaskier spoke again, now facing him, strong and slender arms holding Geralt in case he swayed. 

“Hey,” Jaskier murmured tenderly when Geralt lifted his head. “You feel like you can stand?”

Geralt nodded out of reflex, but Jaskier still knew him too well. 

“Geralt...”

He grumbled, fighting the ridiculous flush in his cheeks. 

“I could probably use some help,” he admitted. 

Jaskier draped Geralt’s arm across his shoulder and adjusted around his sore arm (Geralt had ripped off the sling hours ago when it was clear it wasn’t helping his pain), and navigated him to the closest chair. 

Jaskier sat beside him, hand still on his shoulder. 

Geralt turned and watched him, their eyes meeting briefly before Jaskier shuffled and looked away. 

Jaskier hadn’t moved from his side the entire night, apart from the bathroom and a phone call, and Geralt was torn between blinding gratitude and terrible guilt. 

He knew there were many other things he could be doing. 

“...Thank you, Jaskier.”

Jaskier sat upright as though doused with ice water and closed his shocked jaw. 

And then there was that dazzling smile, tinged by that same pain Geralt knew was the same he himself had inflicted. 

“No need to thank me, Geralt. You’d do the same for me.” He reached over and took Geralt’s hand, lacing their fingers together. 

He shut his eyes, but didn’t release Jaskier’s hand. 

Deep breath in, and out. 

In. And out. 

...He had to say it. 

He had to say it out loud. Maybe then it wouldn’t have nearly the power it would have later. 

“She’s going to die.” 

Jaskier’s thumb trembled as it traced a path back and forth over his. 

“I don’t know, Geralt.” 

He opened his eyes at the gentle tug on his shoulder, and saw Jaskier sitting back on the thankfully armless stretch of chairs. 

“Come lay back down,” Jaskier urged him. “You look done for, love.”

Geralt hesitated, watching with a smile the embarrassment on Jaskier’s face at his innocent slip. 

“Fine,” he muttered, trying to make himself sound crankier than he was, ignoring the ache in his hand as Jaskier let go. 

But Jaskier caught the quirks of a grin on the exhausted lines of his face, and grabbed the pillow Geralt had slept on before. 

Geralt hesitated, meeting Jaskier’s eye as he pinched the pillow in his fingers and tossed it aside. 

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed the lightest shade of pink as he nodded, crossing his legs and patting his inner thigh, sending shivers down Geralt’s spine. 

“Just like old times,” Jaskier chuckled, voice breathy and eyes darting to his hands, one holding the back of the seat, the other flat on his thigh. 

“Hmmm.”

Geralt sat on the cushion in front of him, fighting the temptation to rest his back against the musician’s chest. 

Not that resting in his uncovered lap would be any less tempting. 

Before he could change his mind and grab the pillow, Jaskier tugged him back, both gentle and urgent, a long sigh of relief releasing from Geralt’s chest as he nestled into the crook of Jaskier’s knee. 

“Is this alright?” Geralt murmured, a pain filling his chest at the fear that Jaskier would say no. 

Gentle fingers nestled into the hair over Geralt’s shoulder, carding slowly through the silver layers—Jaskier’s hand resting with warm, knowing reassurance on his chest, thumb tucked into the dip of his collarbone, fingers spread over his peck, the material of his T-shirt gathered between them. 

“You know me better than that.”

Jaskier’s words crackled in his gut like curling flames and he managed a small nod, his forehead brushing Jaskier’s pink pajama pants. He inhaled, exhaled, and relaxed, stretching out his legs and letting his arm curl around the musician’s leg, hand cupping his knee. 

Just like old times. 

“We were going to a baseball game,” Geralt murmured, fighting the comforting reflex to stroke Jaskier’s knee with his thumb. “Lambert got us tickets. Ciri didn’t really want to go...she was just going for me.”

Jaskier shook his head, stroking the bangs out of Geralt’s eyes and letting his fingertips brush his ear. 

“Ciri wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t want to, and you wouldn’t have made her even if she didn’t,” the musician said. “And if she went just to be with you, is that a bad thing?” He stroked his cheek, Geralt leaning into the touch as his eyes burned. “She’s ten, Geralt...she still adores you. And always will, I might add.“

His breath stilled, warmth pooling in his chest. 

“...Geralt, can I ask you something?”

His eyes were shut, but Geralt could picture clear as day how soft Jaskier’s eyes were. 

“Mhmm.”

Jaskier inhaled, paused, and Geralt opened his eyes at his hesitation. 

“Go on, Jas.”

“...When did you find out Yen was a lying bitch?”

Geralt chuckled dryly, and he brushed Jaskier’s knee with his thumb. 

“A couple weeks. When Ciri found out why I broke up with you, she refused to talk to me until I confronted Yen about it.” He swallowed hard, his thumb stopping its caresses and his chest aching. “It didn’t take much pushing for her to tell me the truth.”

He inhaled, stopped, and squeezed his eyes shut. 

He should apologize...but everything hurt. 

He could only take so much pain at a time. 

“How long did it take you to regret leaving me?” Jaskier asked, a bitter but tender edge to his voice. 

Geralt kept his eyes closed. 

“A week. Shorter than that if I’m honest. Even before I found out the truth.” 

Jaskier shifted, unnerved, and Geralt reached up and laid his hand on Jaskier’s, still held to his cheek. 

“Ciri told me what happened...” Jaskier whispered, so quiet it sounded like the air had been sucked from his lungs. “But I didn’t want to push you.” 

He squeezed Geralt’s hand. 

“I’d already forgiven you, you know.”

“...You shouldn’t have.”

“That’s my decision, not yours.”

Geralt couldn’t respond to that—so he didn’t, letting his arm back down and stroking away at Jaskier’s knee. 

“Did I ever tell you that tickles?” Jaskier said quietly after a few minutes had passed. 

Geralt immediately pulled his hand back, but Jaskier held it tight and let it fall back on his knee with a wink. 

“I never said I didn’t like it,” he murmured, eyes wet but smile shimmering. 

Geralt started stroking with both thumb and forefinger this time, and felt that ache of regret sear through him like fire. 

Jaskier had been the diamond in the shit pile of his love life. Of his friendships. Of most anything, really, that wasn’t Ciri. 

“I don’t know what you saw in me,” Geralt whispered, hand stilling. 

Jaskier took his time caressing and massaging Geralt’s scalp through the layers of his hair. 

“I still see it, love,” he whispered back. “I never stopped seeing it.” 

The tender, familiar touch made something hard and necessary melt in his gut, and Geralt started crying, burying his face in his free hand and clutching Jaskier’s knee for dear life. 

“It should’ve been me, Jas. Why couldn’t that bastard have hit me?”

Jaskier crouched over him as far as he could reach and embraced him over his lap, tears wet and heavy dripping from the musician’s cheeks onto his chest. 

“Can I lay next to you, Geralt?” 

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier sat back and nudged him over, stretching out beside him and pulling him close. 

“Thank you,” Geralt whispered as Jaskier wipes the tears off his cheeks. 

Jaskier smiled, kissed his cheek, and pressed his chest to Geralt’s back. 

“The night’s not over yet,” he murmured, voice trembling, breath warm and tight against Geralt’s neck. “Hold out for the dawn, one way or the other. I’ll be here, no matter what news the sun brings.” 

~~~~~~~~~~

_Four Years Ago_

Before Ciri, Geralt had been tendering an offer with fellow bondsman Zoltan to open an official bounty hunter office instead of just using the cab of his truck for his files. After Ciri, it only made sense to expand his business and to maybe even take on private eye work when needed. 

He’d been fortunate to have Nenneke, Iola, and Zoltan’s support when he first took Ciri as his foster child—with the unpredictability of bounty hunter work, and the necessity of taking as many jobs as he could to keep he and Ciri fed and clothed, they were able to patch together a unique schedule to make sure Geralt still got as many hours and bail jumpers in as possible—and when it was necessary for Geralt to travel out of town or even out of state, Iola and Nenneke took turns having Ciri spend the night with them. 

If Geralt worried about Ciri missing any kind of nurturing because of the circumstances of her early life, he didn’t anymore. Everyone he knew and worked with adored Ciri and treated her like she was their own. It was all he could hope for for her. 

The bounty reward from Eredin’s capture accomplished what Geralt hoped—it bought he and Ciri a small house in a relatively decent part of the city, and it paid off what was left on his truck, but with a whole new set of expenses that came with the bundle of everything pure and perfect and sweet (and who had the cutest giggle Geralt ever heard when he blew raspberries on her pudgy little tummy), it was perfect timing that Zoltan was all but begging Geralt to go into business with him. 

It surprised him, as months turned into years, what haunted him most about the first 24 hours he knew his daughter. 

It wasn’t the horror of the house that he rescued her from, or the inevitability of her death if he’d left her there; it was her shrieking infant cry when Fringilla separated them. 

Even after six years, and the threat of Child Services taking Ciri away had long passed, Geralt woke up in a cold sweat, heaving for breath at reliving that coughing shriek and piercing wail from those tiny lungs, those wide blue eyes pleading for him over the woman’s shoulder in a desperate state of fear and abandonment. 

Nothing he’d ever seen or done in combat, or in all his years of bounty hunting, haunted him the way those eyes did. 

He usually ended up padding silently down the hall to check on her, asleep under her wolf-patterned comforter, her stuffed horse Roach clutched in her tiny arms, only able to find himself breathing easier after watching her sleep for at least ten minutes, sometimes more. The remaining hours of the night would inevitably tend to a length of cold whiskey while sitting in his recliner...which would inevitably lead to him texting Jaskier. 

Geralt first met Jaskier, from a distance, at a special evening theatre event they had at Ciri’s school, featuring a hodgepodge of musicians—some older and retired and looking for a way to get back into practice with their trade, and some new musicians trying this as a way to break into the music world. 

Ciri was enamored, entranced, ecstatic by what she saw, and bolted to the front of the auditorium the second the closing curtain was drawn, begging for autographs from all the members, but especially excited to get an autograph from the musician who played the bard: Jaskier. 

He was the one who drew the crowds—in his early thirties, he was a world-famous musician, making a name for himself in folk, light rock, ballad, and alternative through his medieval bard persona—he even dressed the part for album covers, concert tours, and interviews, sporting multicolored silk waistcoats, tailored silk pants, and leather boots that reached his knees. He claimed the secret to his fame lay in his most beloved instrument, a hand-carved wooden lute which went with him everywhere. 

The year Ciri turned 6, Jaskier announced that for the next several months, he would be touring to countless elementary and middle schools across California, many of the performances recorded and televised, to give back to the community and to reach out to kids to give them hope for their future and to “expose them to better music than their coarse, clichéd lullabies”, as Jaskier was fond of saying. 

The musician made it no secret that he came from a dark past, including some recently leaked information that revealed abuse and criminal charges were filed against his parents, which went a long way to explaining why Jaskier emancipated at 15, the same year he made his first indie album. 

Geralt didn’t mean to learn so much about the man, but when all Ciri listened to, talked about, and wanted to see was the musician, he ended up hearing and seeing more about him than he would have on his own. And after finding out why Jaskier was taking an entire year off from a very lucrative concert tour—to reach out to younger generations and give them a break from reality in his medieval world—Geralt couldn’t help the respect and interest Jaskier garnered. 

After that first performance, Ciri was obsessed with the traveling troupe—which meant driving across the city, sometimes further, and back to take her to as many of the performances as they could, whether or not Ciri went to the schools on the tour. Not that he really minded; with how quickly she picked up on the tunes, Ciri would inevitably sing her own recap of the show on their way home each night, and there was no sound in the world Geralt loved more than his little girl belting it out of their open car windows, holding her hairbrush as a microphone.

For Ciri’s 6th birthday, Geralt scrounged and scrimped and ate peanut butter and crackers for a month to get them both ridiculously overpriced tickets to a live, acoustic open mic performance Jaskier was having at a coffeeshop nearly two hours away. But it was worth it to hear Ciri’s deafening squeals of excitement when he picked her up early from school, a bouquet of pink roses and tuxedo-suited teddy bear in tow, and told her where they were going. 

Despite the hellish madness of traffic and only having slept three hours the night before (thanks to a bail jumper who got the drop on his partner and gave Zoltan a concussion), the coffeeshop itself was surprisingly nice. Not large and gaudy like corporate chains, it was older and worn, the wood-paneled walls aged with multiple coats of varnish and murky with years’ worth of cigarette smoke. Geralt was also surprised to see Jaskier was already on stage, seated in a small folding chair and casually tuning his lute, seemingly oblivious to the enthusiastic chatter of a group of fangirls in front of him and to the general din of the quickly-filling coffeehouse. 

Ciri was so excited she could hardly sit still, squirming and fidgeting and taking tiny steps back and forth by the stool Geralt sat on. He’d made her promise to wait until after the show to talk to Jaskier, otherwise he knew she’d try and sit on the stage directly in front of him. Which, if Geralt’s estimation of his character was accurate, Jaskier would happily allow it. Even if he didn’t remember Ciri from nearly a dozen of his previous performances, Jaskier truly loved his work with kids. His patience at his school events was unrivaled, and he always looked genuinely thrilled to be there. 

Tonight, though, there was something different about his presence, his quiet concentration. A single mic, a single light, and a dark green waistcoat with tailored jeans and ankle-top boots made Jaskier look modern, and melancholy. 

Maybe it was just the difference in atmosphere that made him look older, more serious, mature even. 

It was a good look for him, though it made something twist in Geralt’s chest. 

After twenty minutes, Ciri gave up on pacing and climbed haphazardly into Geralt’s lap, nearly falling and yelping, Geralt catching her and wrapping his arms around her relieved and giggling form. As Geralt finally got her to settle down, he saw that Jaskier was watching them, and he met Geralt’s eye with a soft smile. Geralt smiled, and Ciri giggled and waved at him, and Jaskier waved back. 

Turning the mic toward him, Jaskier cleared his throat and said, “Well, isn’t this just delightful! So many new and old faces. I’m so grateful to see all of you, and to share this evening with you. You’ll hear some new songs, and hear some old ones, and I hope this evening is as enjoyable for you as I know it will be for me.”

Briefly meeting Geralt’s eye and then facing the crowd, Jaskier strummed his fingertips down the strings on his lute, and began to play. 

He had an incredible voice—speaking and singing. But it was more than that made Geralt’s chest warm and his arms shiver. 

When Jaskier picked up that lute, shut his eyes, and inhaled to start his song, it was truly as though they’d stepped back in time—they weren’t crowded around an elevated stage in a smoke-clouded coffeehouse, Geralt awkwardly propped on bar stool and Ciri balanced on his lap and clinging to his forearm, eyes wide and mouth open in awe—they were in a medieval tavern, the wild, perilous, mystical wilderness of monsters, heroes, and magic outside swirling and threading into an incredible tapestry of storytelling. 

He sang with such heart—whether it was with lusty sass in his more adult, ribald tunes (Geralt covered Ciri’s ears for one, hoping she hadn’t caught enough to ask him questions he was NOT ready to answer yet)—or if it was the heart-wrenching ballads of the white wolf warrior, searching the lands for his long lost love—that one Geralt had heard before, and sometimes played on his headphones when he was staying in a shit motel on a job and was missing Ciri terribly. 

Two hours later, after his last set, Jaskier suddenly came back to vibrant life, smile brighter than any sun, and jumped down from the chair he sat on and gave a very gallant bow to the crowd, the teenage girls erupting into near-deafening squeals (after being threatened by the coffeeshop manager that they would be thrown out if they ruined Jaskier’s performance, Geralt was impressed they held out that long), and the larger surrounding crowd joined them in applause, Geralt clapping around Ciri’s ecstatic hands and chuckling at her eager entreaties to let her go and talk to him now, PLEASE can she go talk to him now. 

He finally relented to Ciri’s increasingly pitiful pleas once the majority of the crowd was gone and let her bolt across the stage and stand just in front of Jaskier. 

Once Jaskier excused himself from the last of his fangirls, he lit up when looked down and saw Ciri bouncing in front of him. 

“Well, look who it is!” he said. “I haven’t seen you in a few weeks! Not since the tour moved north.”

Ciri nodded, holding up her tiny notebook, where she had at least eight of Jaskier’s signatures already written. 

“My name is Ciri!” she exclaimed. “And this is my dad.“

“Geralt,” he supplied quietly as he joined them on stage. 

Jaskier smiled and held out his hand. “Pleasure to meet you, finally! I’ve seen you both at almost all of my performances! Such devotion warms my heart.” He knelt to Ciri’s level and said, “You’re my biggest fan aren’t you, Ciri?”

“I am I am I am!!” Ciri squealed as she threw her arms around the artist’s neck and exclaimed, “I love you, Jaskier! You’re my hero and my favorite singer and when I grow up, I wanna be just like you.”

Geralt bent down to pick up Ciri’s pen and notebook, about to make his apologies and pry the adorable and clingy Ciri from the musician’s shoulders, but Jaskier just stood and wrapped his arms around her and cradled her against his chest, suddenly-misty blue eyes shutting as he held the back of Ciri’s blond head with his hand. 

“I love you, too, Ciri,” Jaskier’s muddled voice murmured into her hair. “Thank you, sweet. You have no idea how much that means to me. I’m so utterly glad I’ve gotten to know you.” 

Ciri nodded in agreement and rested her head on Jaskier’s shoulder, perfectly and utterly content. 

Geralt’s chest ached...nimble, lute-calloused fingers had snuck their way in through the dead tissue protecting his heart—to that place he’d only let Ciri into, and strummed a chord in the tomb-like silence. 

In that single moment, Geralt fell in love with him. 

“Come on, Ciri, let’s not bother him anymore,” he said, rubbing Ciri’s back and smile quirking despite her stubbornness when she absolutely refused to let go. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” he said. 

But the musician waved off his apology, no sign of guile or passive aggressive acceptance on how he held Ciri and how overjoyed he looked to be doing so, both his arms tucked around her to wrap her legs around his waist. 

“Listen,” Jaskier said to Geralt over Ciri’s shoulder, “these coffee shop performances always leave me kinda wired...Would you like to join me for a drink? This coffeehouse has almost every liquor you can imagine.” 

Geralt sighed when he saw Ciri wasn’t going anywhere for the next hour at least, and he tousled her hair, blessed with a bright, euphoric smile from his daughter as she turned to Geralt then relaxed back against Jaskier. 

“Alright. No alcohol for me, but coffee sounds good.”

Jaskier smiled, nodding toward the other end of the coffeehouse. Geralt extended his hand to allow him to go first and followed behind him, sticking his tongue out at Ciri when he met her eye and her grinning and giggling in reply. 

They sat in chairs at the bar, Jaskier scooting back to give Ciri room as she rested on his lap, arms still around his neck. 

“She’s not choking you, is she?”

Jaskier smiled and winked, shaking his head no and raising a hand to the bartender. 

“Coffee, cream and sugar, and white Zinfandel, please.” He turned and said, “Is plain coffee alright? I should’ve asked first, I’m sorry, my mouth just gets ahead of me—I really should’ve asked—“

Geralt smiled and said, “Regular coffee is fine, Jaskier. Thank you.” 

Jaskier started his wine and Geralt stirred in his cream and sugar, both of them in a strange but comfortable silence—so comfortable that it nearly shook Geralt from his chair. 

“So, Geralt,” Jaskier said, making the movements with his drink wide and easy to avoid spilling on Ciri, who was much more relaxed and was no doubt falling asleep on him. “I’ve been trying to figure out all evening what it is you do. Are you a security guard?”

Geralt smiled behind the lip of his coffee mug. “Not exactly.”

“Cop?”

“Not exactly.”

At the hilarious quirk in Jaskier’s raised brow, Geralt chuckled and said, “I’m a bail bondsman.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in excitement and intrigue. “A bounty hunter?” 

Geralt nodded. 

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to get any more interesting, but here we are!” Jaskier exclaimed, taking another sip of his wine and setting the glass down on the bar and letting his hand rest on Ciri’s back. 

There was no doubt she was asleep now, with her head limp against Jaskier’s cheek and her breathing slow and even. Jaskier followed Geralt’s eyes and smiled. 

“She’s too adorable for words,” he said quietly. 

“She really is,” Geralt murmured, so quiet he hardly heard himself.

Geralt’s chest ached with how familiar this all was, and how he didn’t feel the least bit of jealousy at how much Ciri took to him.

It felt like home. 

And for the first time since he’d held Ciri that night in the station, that realization didn’t scare him. 

He shuffled, sipping his coffee and trying to make his voice even. 

“This may not be my place,” Geralt began. “But why don’t you have proper security? You’re certainly well-known enough to warrant a full security team.”

Jaskier sipped from his wine, mouth scrunched in thought—Geralt distracted by the muscles of the musician’s throat as he swallowed. 

“I do, for my concerts and school performances at least,” he said, “but I beg them to let me have these open mic performances without the entourage. I still have one bodyguard—she’s doing a piss-poor job of hiding herself in the back of the crowd.“ 

Jaskier pointed her out, a burly, sour-faced woman dressed in all black and acting like she was more interested in her phone than anything else, though Geralt knew she was checking him out as a legitimate threat. 

Jaskier waved to her, and she rolled her eyes, returning to her phone. 

“I like having the illusion of obscurity sometimes,” Jaskier continued. “After all, this is where my career started—in a coffeehouse just like this one.”

He inhaled, long and slow, and exhaled, and it took every bit of Geralt’s willpower not to cradle his hand, curled around that wine glass. 

Suddenly Ciri stirred and leaned back, sleepy eyes scrunched at Jaskier. She shook her head and turned to Geralt, holding her arms out to him. 

“Daddy—I’m tired. Can we go home?”

Both men chuckled and Jaskier helped transfer Ciri from his lap to Geralt’s, where she burrowed into his chest and shoulder, nestling into his hair and sighing, 

“It’s my birthday.”

Geralt chuckled, kissing her forehead. 

“It sure is, Lion Cub,” he murmured. “Happy birthday, baby.” 

Geralt met Jaskier’s eye, eyes warm and full and everything. 

He was in way over his head. 

He needed to get out of here. 

“Thanks for the coffee, Jaskier,” he said, standing and avoiding his eye. “And for indulging Ciri...you made her 6th birthday far more special than I could have on my own.”

Jaskier’s smile was tender now, and warm, and he touched Geralt’s arm almost like a reflex. 

“Nah,” he said, shaking his head in mild admonishment. “I saw you both throughout the show—she was as thrilled to be spending the day with her daddy as she was to see me.” The crinkle of laughter on Jaskier’s cheeks made him look far younger than 32, and Geralt’s insides clenched with desire. 

Shit. 

He _really_ needed to get out of here. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, standing. “I won’t keep you—and I’m sure my security guard is ready to rip me a new sphincter for not checking in with her since the show.” He stood, patting Ciri’s shoulder affectionately and making Geralt smile again. 

“Listen....” Jaskier chewed on his lip. “I know you probably get hit on all the time, but I know I’m gonna regret it if I don’t try, and it’s not like I’m asking you to shack up or something—and I’m just rambling now—but I think you’re uber gorgeous and so sweet and oh my god, shut up, Jaskier—!”

Geralt cracked up laughing, shoulders shaking and Ciri startling and curling back into his neck. 

“Here,” he said, still laughing as he tugged out his phone and unlocked it. “Send yourself a text from my phone, that way I have your number.” 

Jaskier couldn’t have looked more surprised if he’d been hit by a bus. 

“Oh—oh! Right. Um...yes.” He fiddled with his phone and held it up, the camera shutter clicking, Jaskier showing him the photo he snapped of Ciri asleep against him, sandalled-feet dangling under his arms, Geralt’s eyes warm and...happy, and focused on Jaskier. 

Jaskier typed in his number and sent himself the photo, handing Geralt his phone with a smile. 

“Now you have my number!” he beamed. “And I have a memento of a wonderful night.”

Geralt nodded, too overwhelmed to respond, and ducked his head. 

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

The musician still looked in shock, but there was a warmth of hope there now, tugging on the corners of his genuine smile. 

“Goodnight, Geralt.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The drive home went much quicker than Geralt expected. Ciri asleep in her carseat, the night cool and wonderful and freeing, the blood rushing and coursing and singeing his skin, his chest, his groin. 

Two hours felt simultaneously like two minutes and two months by the time Geralt tucked Ciri into bed, made sure her nightlight was on and her teddy bear was tucked into the tiny bed Nenneke insisted on buying for her, and made his way to his room, closing his door and finding himself in a sudden tizzy of conflict over whether to shower or not. 

With how hard he was, a shower could be a very good, or very bad thing. 

He hadn’t felt sexual desire like this in many years. It was more than the ruthless burn of lust that took Geralt to escorts in the years before Ciri—this was a longing from the deepest, nearly-forgotten corners of himself—those places that longed for gentle, tender hands to hold him, to demand nothing of him but his skin against theirs, to wring from him the passionate release from an escalation of affection, understanding...love. 

He didn’t need to prod his imagination or his intuition to know that Jaskier could very well provide all that. 

Or at least, the near-delirious with exhaustion part of his brain thought he might. 

He forced himself into bed without a shower, ignoring his hard-on and throwing himself into bed, on his side, falling asleep a couple minutes later despite the waves of aching arousal tightening his legs and chest from the protrusion of his rock-hard dick. 

~~~~~~~

“Don’t worry love—just a little while longer. I’ll take care of you.”

Languid, heavy thrusts into the rolling material of his waterbed and Geralt grit his teeth, reduced to begging again when his cock ached painfully against the ring wrapped around it. 

“Jas—Jaskier—! Please!”

Teeth nipped at Geralt’s ear, a pulsing cock dripping and sliding between Geralt’s ass cheeks. 

“You asked me for this, sweetie!” the musician purred, circling those perfect fingers around Geralt’s dick. He gave a loose tug, nearly reducing Geralt to tears, and he chuckled, kissing his cheek. “But I suppose I can have some mercy, considering how gloriously _delicious_ you look when you beg.” He tugged, and tugged, and tugged, Geralt sobbing into his pillow until the plastic slid off into Jaskier’s hand.

“Cum for me, my love,” Jaskier growled as he licked around his ear. 

Geralt woke screaming in pleasure as he came and came hard, his throbbing dick spilling onto the ugly orange sheets on his lumpy ass mattress. He couldn’t help but succumb to it, thrusting and rolling into the pleasure, the shivers and trembles lasting even after he collapsed onto his mess. 

He was still hard even after that (maybe he hadn’t taken as good care of his _needs_ as he should’ve; Ciri always went before anything else). He took himself in hand and jerked off hard and fast, clinging to the images of Jaskier in his dream before he could feel ashamed of them. 

He came again, unable to stop himself from shouting Jaskier’s name. 

After laying limp and relaxed for an indulgent few minutes, he cleaned himself off, balled up his sheets and tossed them in his laundry basket, and ducked into his shower for a quick wash before he had to wake Ciri for school. 

When he kissed Ciri goodbye and watched her get onto the bus, he wondered how expensive a waterbed was, but before he could do a ridiculous google search, his phone vibrated. 

_Morning, Geralt! Did you sleep as well as I did? 😋_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are going to be SO MANY MORE FEELS AND SMUT AND WONDERFULNESS next chapter. I know there’s been a lot of background into their relationship, but I really wanted their love and attraction and relationship to feel genuine. Which, tehe, will make the smut OH SO MUCH better. Muahahaha 😈😈😈😈😈😈  
> And also more Ciri health angst. No spoilers, but clutch your chests in preparation for future angst. Cause there’s lots.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Six months after the coffeehouse, Ciri is sick with a stomach bug and Geralt opens up to Jaskier in more ways than one. 
> 
> Aka, it’s back in time once again to watch Geralt let himself love someone, and to want his love in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y’all, Geralt is one hell of a slow mover.  
> But...it’s so fucking worth it. 
> 
> AKA, gawd they’re so fucking cute. 
> 
> Also OMFG so much soft Geralt. And I just cant get enough. 😭❤️
> 
> There is so much fluff in this one, your teeth will fall out. But I just couldn’t help it 😭😭😭😭😭 *dramatic sigh*
> 
> Hope you enjoy!! And stay safe out there. 🖤🖤🖤

_Three Years, Six Months Ago_

The first time Geralt called Jaskier, he’d woken up from a nightmare. 

Not that they hadn’t spoken, and texted, since the coffeehouse, but it was always with Jaskier’s prompting and action. Geralt didn’t mind—his feelings for the musician hadn’t waned since they’d met, and only grew daily. 

Not that he trusted himself to reveal that yet. 

Jaskier was as wordy in text as he was in person, and despite the occasional annoyance at the never-ending vibrations in his back pocket at all hours of the day and night, Geralt enjoyed it. His responses were probably too bland for someone as flamboyant and vibrant as him, but Jaskier still reacted to each text as though it was the sweetest, funniest interaction he’d ever had in his life, and gaffawed with laughter and deep, longing sighs whenever they had time for a call. 

Geralt began to look forward to Jaskier’s interactions as much as Ciri’s, and to his surprise, he wasn’t bothered by that. 

He’d forgotten what it was like to have a hassle-free adult relationship. And though he and Yennefer were on speaking terms again, (and since she’d taken such a shine to Ciri and begged Geralt to let her be on the babysitting rotation), their former romance was toxic and driven by selfish lust by both of them. Although Yennefer was the one who ended it, Geralt ultimately became the one to ensure they remained apart. 

With Jaskier, there was lust there—as well as a deeper attraction that made Geralt long for emotional intimacy just as much as physical—but it didn’t interrupt his life, as it had with Yennefer so many years before. 

He dreamt, and yearned, and grit his teeth in pleasure and guilt when he woke up more mornings than not with a hard-on that couldn’t be explained with just morning wood. 

Months passed as their conversations became something Geralt not simply tolerated but depended on, and yearned for. The longer their relationship continued to grow, the more Geralt wanted from him. 

It both comforted and scared him, and tonight he needed to hear Jaskier’s voice again—grounding him to something real, to an affection that was tangled deep in is soul like roots pressing through rock. 

Ciri had been sick with a stomach bug—he’d already called the doctor just to be safe and it wasn’t anything serious, but she threw up so much, she just lay limp in Geralt’s arms between upsets and cried. He tried his best to distract her, reading her her favorite storybooks and turning on countless Disney movies, but by the time her upsets stopped long enough for her to sleep, it was past midnight. 

He could hardly drag himself away from her, but he was desperate for a shower and was more exhausted than he remembered being in years. 

He hadn’t been asleep longer than a half hour when the nightmares started. It wasn’t as though Ciri hadn’t been sick before—but seeing her cry when there was virtually nothing he could do tore at his insides and made him feel completely helpless. 

After he dialed, he realized it was 1:30 in the morning, but Jaskier answered just as Geralt was about to hang up. 

“Ciri?” Jaskier answered, not a hint of drowsiness or sleep in his voice. “What have I told you about calling me with your daddy’s phone? Use your iPad, sweetie, that’s what we have FaceTime for!” 

Geralt filed that away for later with an amused chuckle and said, “Hey, Jaskier. It’s me.”

There was a clatter and thump and harried cursing and scuffling, and despite his exhaustion, Geralt found himself belly laughing at Jaskier dropping his phone the first time Geralt took the initiative to call him. 

“Geralt, dearest!” Jaskier said after a minute. “What a pleasant surprise! I haven’t heard your voice in ages!”

“We talked two days ago,” Geralt chuckled. “I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

“No, not at all! I had a breakthrough with my album and I’ve been scribbling furiously all night. You should see my studio—pencils and music sheets EVERYWHERE.”

Geralt chuckled. “I’m glad you got over your writer’s block.”

Jaskier clucked his tongue. “You’re only saying that because I was driving you crazier than normal with all my extra texts and gifs and pics of random shit that distracted me.”

Geralt laughed. He wasn’t entirely wrong, but he was never truly annoyed. He loved Jaskier’s frantic energy, especially when he’d call after one two many drinks and sing him random bits of lyrics that made absolutely no sense. It was such a change in pace from what he dealt with every day, Geralt loved it. 

And loved him. 

He needed to tell him that someday. 

“Does Ciri call you often in the middle of the night?” Geralt asked. 

Jaskier hesitated. “Only when she has nightmares, and you’re out of town.”

Geralt’s stomach dropped. 

“Why doesn’t she call me?” he whispered, voice tight. 

He wasn’t sure that he’d expected an answer, but Jaskier replied, “I asked her the same thing, and she said she didn’t want to worry you when you’re out looking for bad guys.” He paused, Geralt’s tight exhale speaking more than his words could. “I’ll tell her to stop, or to call you...I didn’t mean to hurt you, Geralt, I’m sorry.”

Geralt pressed his fingers tight into his wet eyes, trying to hold his breath so Jaskier wouldn’t hear him. 

“It’s okay,” he stuttered. “I’m glad she has someone to call. I’ll make sure she knows she can call me, too.”

Jaskier sighed tenderly. “She does, love. I promise she does.” 

The musician grew eerily silent on the other end. 

“Geralt, sweetie, are you crying?”

He cleared his throat roughly. “No.”

“Oh honey, it’s okay. You’re up pretty late, yourself. Is everything alright?”

He exhaled shakily, sniffing and deciding it wasn’t worth the energy to hide his tears since Jaskier knew already. 

“Ciri’s been sick.” 

“Oh no!” Jaskier cooed, the only person Geralt ever knew that could do that and not sound patronizing. “Is it that head cold again?”

“No, a stomach thing. Doc thinks it may be the flu. She’s been throwing up for hours. She finally fell asleep a little after midnight.”

Jaskier shuffled again, taking his phone off of speaker and his voice clearer and more defined in Geralt’s ear. 

“Oh, Geralt...that’s awful. I’m so sorry.” 

“It’s alright,” Geralt muttered, sniffing again and clearing his throat. “I tried to sleep...but I couldn’t. So I figured I’d annoy you for a change.”

“Never annoyed,” Jaskier spoke softly, his voice able to show more emotion and honest empathy than anyone Geralt had ever known. “I could never be annoyed by you, darling.”

He was the only one who could call Geralt that and not make him feel like a child. 

It was like he actually meant it. 

“Jaskier...” he started, unsure how to articulate it all. 

He yawned, Jaskier’s background hums and inquiring noises acting like a glass of warm rum on his insides. 

He inhaled, exhaled, and felt his eyelids drooping. 

“Geralt...?”

He opened his eyes again. “Mhmm?”

“Oh, sweetie...are you in bed?”

“Mhmm.”

“All tucked in?”

Geralt chuckled again, eyes closed. “Mhmm.” 

“Good. Put me on speaker and I’ll sing you to sleep.” 

“Mmmm...Jas, you really don’t have to—“

“Hush now, love. Let me do this for you, please?” 

Geralt pulled his dark green comforter over his shoulders and folded his arm under his pillow. 

“Am I on speaker?” Jaskier called. 

“Mhmm.”

“Good. Turn off your light, close your eyes, and I’m gonna sing, okay?”

“Mhmm...”

He sang Geralt’s favorite song, a mournful, beautiful piece about a hunter slaying his final monster before laying down his silver blade and going to his eternal rest. 

Geralt relaxed without thinking as the words and lyrics melted into his exhaustion and he felt a tear at the sorrow of the solitary hunter run down his cheek. 

He was asleep before the end of the second verse. 

~~~~~~~ 

Ciri’s hiccuping snore in the crook of his neck where she sprawled across his chest woke him up. He laughed at the drool that trickled down her cheek and wiped it away, bringing her closer and accidentally knocking over his phone. He bent down to pick it up and saw the call was still connected at 6 hours, 32 minutes and counting, heart swelling with indescribable fondness when he heard Jaskier’s soft snore on the other line. 

Unable to stop himself, he murmured into the phone, “Thank you, Jaskier. I love you.”

The elation that filled his chest as he hung up and cuddled back into his pillow with Ciri wrapped around him was the best he’d felt in years—if ever. Even though Jaskier hadn’t heard him, he could get up the gumption now. 

“Daddy...” Ciri murmured sleepily. 

“Yes, baby?”

“I’m hungry.”

Geralt smiled, kissing the top of her head, relief flooding him at the return of her appetite. 

“Let me grab you some crackers and ginger ale, and you stay here.” 

“Okay,” her voice garbled into his pillow, tucking his comforter tighter around her. 

As he rummaged through his pantry cupboards, it hit him like a drowning wave that he’d actually said it. 

He told Jaskier he loved him. 

...And he didn’t regret it. 

He held his hand to his head, dizzy for an entirely different reason than exhaustion. 

He could do it now. 

He said it once, he’d be able to say it again. 

And for once, his gut hadn’t turned on him. 

Maybe this would be good for him, and for Ciri. 

The fact that he didn’t have to choose made his heart ache with gratitude, and longing. 

~~~~~~~~

The opportunity to say it again came a couple weeks later. 

Ciri was back to normal, bouncing off the walls with energy and driving Geralt happily insane, and after playing dolls with her for nearly three hours after school, she’d finally zonked out, curled up in her princess cape with Roach tucked under her chin. 

Lifting her into bed and making sure she was actually asleep, Geralt retreated to his bedroom and called Jaskier. 

“Geralt!” the musician squealed. “I’m so glad you called. I’ve been driving myself crazy all day and I’ve just got to tell you what happened with Valdo, that song-stealing whoremonger.”

Geralt happily settled into bed, an amused grin the companion to his “Hmm’s” and “Fuck’s” which were his only fare to Jaskier’s conversations that Geralt could contribute while he vented. 

It was nice, to have this routine, and even nicer since he took that small jump in calling him the other night. 

It was twenty minutes into Jaskier’s ranting that Geralt interrupted him with a loud cough. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted when the adorable nut just kept going. “Jaskier!”

“—What? Oh sorry, love, I’m as obtuse as that jackwang today.”

Geralt chuckled. “Let’s talk about something else, hmm?”

Jaskier “hmm’d” in reply and gnawed on his lip, the sound of his tongue and teeth between his lips spreading goosebumps over Geralt’s arms. 

“Well, how about this,” Jaskier chirped after a moment. “Truth or dare?”

Geralt laughed out loud. “What?”

“Ya know, truth or dare! Well, probably just truth since we can’t see anything we’re doing.”

“Alright. But you start,” Geralt conceded. 

“Hmmm,” Jaskier replied, voice dropping in a grumble as he imitated Geralt. “In that case, I won’t pull any punches.”

Geralt waited with baited breath, air suddenly tight in his chest. 

“Go ahead,” he murmured, voice gruffer with desire than he intended. 

Jaskier swallowed and his breath grew shallow. 

“Alright...” he breathed. “First question...when’s the last time you had a wet dream?”

Geralt’s instincts didn’t disappoint, and tingles of pleasure spread over his chest. 

Six months of talking, of growing closer every day, and they hadn’t done this yet. Partially the distance, partially Jaskier’s unreal schedule, partially Geralt’s fear. 

But now...it felt right. 

It felt right to do this. 

“Had one last night,” Geralt murmured, cheeks flushing. 

Jaskier’s breath hitched, and goosebumps spread over Geralt’s arms. 

“Oh, really?” the musician’s breathy voice replied in an attempt at shocked intrigue. 

Geralt shifted, legs tingling and cock filling. 

“Well, I gotta ask the next question too, then,” Jaskier exhaled. 

He smiled. 

“Go ahead.” 

“....Who was your dream about?” 

He smiled, inhaling and exhaling with his deepest, quietest groan. 

“You.” 

Jaskier gasped so loud, it shook through Geralt’s chest like a blast of wind. 

“Jaskier...” he murmured, voice trembling. 

The musician was panting, attempting to keep quiet and failing miserably. 

“Jaskier.”

 _Pant...pant..._. “...Uh huh?”

Geralt locked his door and shucked off his boxers. 

“Ask me.” 

Jaskier laughed and groaned, clothing rustling in the background. 

“Wanna phone fuck?” Jaskier purred. 

“Hmmm,” Geralt replied, grabbing a bottle of lube from the top shelf of his closet, setting it next to his tissue box, and crawling into bed. 

“Is that a yes or a no?” Jaskier moaned through a chuckle. 

Geralt couldn’t help but laugh, aroused and already fully hard. 

“Yes, Jaskier. Yes.” 

“Oh thank fuck for that,” Jaskier blurted out. “I’m so hard I could hammer nails.”

Geralt laughed and groaned at the contact of his erection on his covers and he moaned without thinking and Jaskier gasped and groaned in pleasure, undeniable stroking under sheets coming from his side. 

“Geralt.... _ah, fuck_!”

He’d never heard Jaskier’s voice like this...dark, predatory, growling in his ear like a preying lion. 

Geralt fucking _loved_ it. 

“What do you want me to do to you?” 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Geralt groaned, dick twitching in his hand. “Just keep talking like that.” He couldn’t help the roll of his hips that sent him jolting and nearly sent his phone off his pillow. 

“Geralt...when I get you here, I’m gonna tie you to the headboard and leave you begging for me,” Jaskier hissed, voice strained and teeth clenched. 

“Fuck yes—“ Geralt bit, stroking tighter and firm as his cock jumped and dripped on his lube-covered hands. 

“Tie—tie you up—and make you beg—“ 

“And put a cock ring on me,” Geralt exhaled, hardly able to breathe. “Fuck my thighs from behind and tease me until I cry.” 

“Ye—yes. Fuck yes—!” Jaskier panted. 

The slick push and pull of flesh filled the call and Geralt clamped his eyes shut, grunting and quickly losing control of any resolve he had to keep himself quiet. 

“Fuck—Geralt, I’m not gonna last long.”

“Me neither—“

Their clipped groans and sighs sped up and became desperate until Geralt fucked into his fist with abandon. 

“Jas—JAS!” 

“Let go, Geralt—let me hear you cum—“

He spilled hard into his clenched fists and rode out the trembling high even as Jaskier came with a desperate cry, voice cracking as it spiked an octave, then dropped into heavy breathing. 

Geralt cuddled close to the phone, turning up his volume and shutting his eyes to focus on nothing but the sounds Jaskier made—the tenor of his exhales as he caught his breath, the way his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he swallowed. 

“...Jaskier?”

 _Pant_ “Yes, dearest?”

“I love you.”

Jaskier gasped, voice shaking, and burst into laughing tears and kissed the phone over and over. 

“Oh Geralt...I love you too, dear. So much it fucking hurts.” He sniffled and said, “I thought I dreamt that the other morning. But...you really said it then, too, didn’t you?”

“Hmmm.” 

Geralt smiled at Jaskier’s exasperated whine, chest aching and suddenly he couldn’t stop himself from bursting into tears. 

“Oh Geralt, sweetie!” Jaskier called. “Love, what’s wrong? Did I do something? Are you okay?”

He was horrified and embarrassed, but also incredibly comforted. In nearly eight years with Yen, he’d only cried once, and she’d laughed at him. 

“I—I wish—you were—here—“ Geralt garbled. “I wish I could hold you, Jaskier—“

It was Jaskier’s turn to cry, and he did, heartily. 

“Ger—Geralt,” he sobbed. “Please—FaceTime me.”

“Jas, I’m disgusting. A fucking mess.”

“But I want to see you,” he begged, both of their sobs overlapping. “I need to, Geralt. Please.”

Geralt wiped his hands sloppily on the sheets and held up his phone, chest tensing at the button leering under his raised thumb. But before he could change his mind, he pressed the FaceTime option, the first ring hardly completed before Jaskier picked up, red eyes wet and swollen, cheeks blushed and hair a sweaty, sexy mess. 

God, he loved him. 

“Fuck, look at you,” Jaskier gasped. “My howling white wolf.”

Geralt ran his hands through his bangs and out of his eyes, tears still dripping down his cheeks. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier prodded, tone gentler, softer, like cotton wrapped around him. “Honey...please look at me.”

He raised his eyes, hand tensing around his phone. It felt so much like Jaskier was actually here with him. 

It was time to man up. And admit what he wanted, and needed. 

“Jaskier...” he said, trying to keep his eyes on the screen. 

Jaskier smiled...god, what that smile did to him. 

“Yes, my love?”

Those words filled him like liquid warmth and gave him the hope to realize he meant it. He’d always meant those pet names Geralt was so fond of and afraid of getting attached to. 

“Would you be my boyfriend?” 

Jaskier started crying again, nearly dropping his phone as he nodded and whimpered, “Yes, Geralt. Yes, my dearest.” 

He sniffled and Geralt sniffled, too, both of them chuckling. 

“I love you, Jaskier,” Geralt murmured. 

Jaskier’s smile could rival Ciri’s for its pure joy, and freedom, with something quirky and off-center and raw that was all Jaskier. 

“Geralt...” Jaskier reached out his hand, as though to stroke his cheek. “I love you.”

He shut his eyes, Geralt holding his breath to see what he would say. 

“I want to see you, Geralt. In person. Please. I won’t ask you to come up here—I’m not making you drive five hours. But I want to see you. If I fly down...can I stay with you?”

Geralt nodded. “Yes...I’d like that.”

He turned to switch his light off and Jaskier murmured, “Can...can you stay on the line with me? I don’t want to go just yet. I just...” He paused, worrying his lip between his teeth.

“It’s alright, Jas...I’m not going anywhere, my little lark. I’ll be right here, as long as you need me.” 

Jaskier’s face brightened at the newly-given pet name as he settled into his pillow. 

“Goodnight, my wolf.”

“Goodnight, my lark.”

_”I love you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More medical angst/Ciri updates next chapter, and even more Geraskier fluff/smut. 
> 
> And some more characters make their entrance, and we will see how hard Geralt had to fight to keep Ciri.
> 
> Also, thank you so much for all your love and comments! 🥰🥰🥰🥰🥰 Y’all are the best.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri is out of surgery, but her prospects aren’t good, and Geralt and Jaskier cling to each other to weather through whatever comes next. 
> 
> And with a brief trip to the past, Jaskier flies out to Geralt’s for a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO. MUCH. FLUFF. 
> 
> And even more soft Geralt breaking under the strain of the anxiety and fear, and the two men finding their steady way back to each other. 
> 
> I. Love. These. Two.  
> AGH  
> 😭😭😭❤️❤️❤️  
> Enjoy!

The ICU rooms weren’t any more comforting than the waiting room. 

Geralt had spent the past hour seated on the bed beside Ciri, holding her tiny, pale hand, watching what little he could see of her face through the oxygen tubes, feeding tubes, ventilator tubes. 

The surgery had been a “success”—they’d repaired her collapsed lung, stopped her internal bleeding, and brought her back to some form of stability.

But they had to induce a coma. And although the drugs to keep her in that coma had been stopped, Ciri hadn’t woken yet. 

She had yet to breathe on her own since before the accident—when she was giggling and burping from the fizz in the soda Geralt had bought her at the gas station. 

He wondered if he’d ever hear her laugh again. 

Hear her call him daddy. 

Hear her tiny voice at the edge of his bed in the middle of the night, wanting to sleep with him after she’d had a nightmare. 

“Geralt?”

He startled off his clenched fist, glancing behind him to Jaskier. 

“Wouldn’t you be more comfortable in the chair?” 

The musician tugged the mentioned object toward him from where he leaned against the wall.

“No,” he replied, turning back to Ciri. 

Jaskier soothed his hand across the knots on Geralt’s neck, and he eased back into the touch. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, reaching behind him to take Jaskier’s hand. 

The musician smiled, nodded, and sat behind Geralt, urging him to rest against him. 

He did, and felt tears burn his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. 

“Shhh...no need, love. No need.” Jaskier sat beside him and hooked his chin over Geralt’s shoulder, watching Ciri with him. “Did Triss leave?” 

Geralt nodded. “She said she’d be back tomorrow morning, and that we’d need to reevaluate our options if Ciri hadn’t improved.” 

That wasn’t exactly what Triss had told him—her words were more hopeful than he chose to believe—that her and her fellow surgeons would need to adjust Ciri’s treatment and that if she hadn’t improved within a few days, they would need to further evaluate and decide what to do from there. 

Triss also told him that they would remove the breathing tubes soon—that she was confident Ciri would breathe on her own. 

It was all sugar-coated, and Geralt knew it. He’d been on the raw side of carnage and violence enough times to know where this was headed. 

If Ciri didn’t wake up in the next few days, she wouldn’t wake up at all. 

His insides shriveled, and he curled over himself, hand tightening on Ciri’s until he had to let it go, afraid he would hurt her. 

Jaskier replaced Ciri’s hand with his own, pressing Geralt’s calloused palm and resting his scruffy cheek against his. 

“It’ll be okay, Geralt,” he whispered. “Ciri isn’t done yet. She’s already survived more than anyone thought she would, even before the accident. She’ll get through this, too.” 

“But what if she doesn’t wake up, Jaskier?” Geralt choked, pressing his eyes shut. They were so dry from lack of sleep and near-constant tears that blinking was painful. “She may live, and never open her eyes again. Never speak again. Never smile or laugh again...I’ve seen it happen, Jas.”

Jaskier tugged at Geralt’s arm until he let him wrap his arm around his waist. 

“Ciri is her father’s daughter. She’s fierce, and strong, and uncompromising.” Jaskier nudged his cheek. “In short, tough as nails. She hasn’t given up yet. And I’m not giving up on her, either. Just like you aren’t.”

Jaskier inhaled, exhaled, and pressed his lips to Geralt’s cheek. 

Geralt started at the touch, leaning back with wide eyes, stomach and chest warming and tensing at the affection.

And Jaskier simply smiled. 

“My feelings haven’t changed, Geralt,” he murmured. “And I’ll always be here for you—in whatever capacity you’ll have me.”

Geralt couldn’t speak, or respond, or even move—so he just let his head rest against Jaskier’s chest. 

How far his reserves had fallen in the past three days. And how little he cared. 

He wanted Jaskier back. And even now, was terrified to tell him. 

“Shhhh.”

The musician’s calloused fingers, beloved to Geralt in so many ways beyond their deft ability to charm people with their musical talent, petted through Geralt’s greasy hair, knotted and unkempt from not having been washed in days, and Jaskier shushed him again, gently, soothing his fingers over the creases on Geralt’s forehead. 

“It’s alright,” Jaskier insisted. “I’m not expecting anything. I just wanted you to know. I know how heavy your heart is, and how overwhelmed you are. I’m still not going anywhere.” 

Geralt cleared his throat. “Jas...you don’t have to do this. I was a beast to you...and you’ve spent so much time away from your work...I don’t want—I can’t—“ He shut his eyes, letting the tips of his fingers brush against Ciri’s limp arm. 

“Love...” Jaskier ducked his head, pressing a gentle, shivering kiss to Geralt’s shoulder. “Do you want me to go?”

He shook his head without hesitation. 

“Good,” Jaskier breathed in relief. “Because I’ve ordered us food, and I’d rather not eat it in the back seat of a cab.”

That made Geralt chuckle, and reminded him how frigging hungry he was. It felt like a month since they’d eaten in the cafeteria that first night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

An hour and a half later, their empty Chinese containers lined the window sill and the comforting feeling of nourishment took away some of Geralt’s anxiety, letting him focus on one breath at a time, rising and falling in Ciri’s chest, mechanized through the ventilator. 

Jaskier sat in the chair, legs crossed over Geralt’s lap, phone in hand as he read some of the most ridiculous fanfiction out loud, which speculated in every possible manner the sexual relationship Jaskier had to his band mates. Though there were rumors of Jaskier having been in a long-term relationship apart from his musical career, little was known beyond the vague silhouettes of Geralt’s form in the tabloids’ pictures, something Geralt was grateful for, not only for Jaskier, but for Ciri, too. 

The musician managed to find a fanfic so ludicrous it even made Geralt laugh when there was a harsh knock on the door. 

Jaskier startled upright and opened it when Geralt nodded.

There was a small man on the other side, hardly reaching five foot, with a bald head, wide glasses, and wearing a business shirt, sweater vest, and carrying a clipboard loaded with paperwork. His name tag read “Kevin, Billing Dept”.

Geralt stood, stomach falling to his knees. 

“Hello, I’m Kevin,” the man said, eyes glued to his clipboard. “I’m from the Billing department.”

“I gathered from your identification,” Geralt growled. “What do you want?”

“It appears your copay ran out this past summer,” the financier said, pushing his glasses farther up on the bridge of his nose and flipping over the top page of his clipboard. 

“Yes,” Geralt replied. “I had shoulder surgery. But I was told there was something left in my coverage.”

“Not after this, I’m afraid,” the man continued. “Between the extended hours in surgery, the medications, and what looks to be an even longer stay in treatment, you won’t have two pennies to rub together from what little your insurance covers.”

Geralt shut his eyes, clinging to the signs of life from the ECG machine, beeping the rhythm of Ciri’s little heart beat. 

“I don’t understand,” he said. “She hasn’t even been discharged yet. The final bill can’t possibly have been calculated. Can’t this discussion wait until I know if my daughter is even going to leave the hospital?”

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Mr. Rivia,” the financier continued brusquely. “If you cannot give proof of payment, then you’re going to have to make some difficult decisions.”

Jaskier flew from his seat as though catapulted. 

“I’m prolly the richest person to walk into this damn hospital. Money is no object!” he shouted, tone broaching no argument. 

Geralt held Jaskier back with his arm.

“Jaskier—“

Jaskier glared at him with all the fury and heartache and concern he held in that cherished heart, and returned his burning eyes to the financier. 

“Money is no object, you little twirp,” he said again, stern, words clipped. “How dare you make a father choose his financial security over his daughter.”

He dug into his pajama pocket and tore out his wallet, removing his credit card and throwing it at the startled biller, who knelt to pick it up and hobbled back to the door, clipboard flung against his chest.

“And if you spare even one cent for little Ciri, I’ll have your job and the jobs of every single person in your department,” Jaskier hissed. “And don’t you dare come back in here again or you’ll be the next patient admitted.”

The financier ducked out of the room, stuttering and flushed with the musician’s card in tow, and Jaskier cursed and slammed the door behind him.

“Fucking bastards,” he bit, lip quivering.

Jaskier turned and watched Ciri through the mess of tubes taped to her nose and mouth and wires and sensors strapped to her fingers and arms and chest, tears rolling down his cheeks. His shoulders trembled as he covered his mouth with his hand and Geralt murmured Jaskier’s name and pulled him into his arms, the musician sobbing and nestling into his chest, shutting out the world and hiccuping into the crook of Geralt’s neck. 

“I love her so much, Geralt,” he sobbed. 

“I know,” Geralt murmured, voice tight. “She adores you...has from the first day. I know she’s glad you’re here.” He rubbed Jaskier’s back, murmuring with a thick voice, “Jas...thank you...I promise I’ll pay you back.”

“You will not!” 

Jaskier pulled back with a teary smile, opened his mouth, shook his head and pressed himself back against Geralt. 

“Jas...I’m—“ He cleared his throat. “I’m glad you’re here. I’m sorry I didn’t say it earlier.”

The musician wiped his hand across his nose. 

“That’s alright,” he said, smiling. “I knew you were.” 

Geralt tugged him close and pressed his lips against Jaskier’s forehead. 

“Jaskier...I need to ask your forgiveness.”

The musician opened his mouth to speak but Geralt stopped him with a gentle stroke of his fingers over his lips. 

“No, Jas, please...let me do this...I should’ve known you would never leave her alone. I...I shouldn’t have listened to Yen. Not when I saw every day how much you loved Ciri and would do anything to keep her safe. I’m—I’m sorry, Jaskier.” He deflated, eyes closing. “It’s a pathetic excuse for an apology, but...”

Jaskier threw his arms around him and burrowed his head into his chest. 

“We can talk later about what this all means, or if it means anything...but right now, can you just hold me for a while?” 

Geralt nodded, rendered silent by the tightness in his chest, his arms finding their comfort in the dips of Jaskier’s hips and the small of his back. 

It may has well have been a century since Geralt felt the warmth of trust and security he always felt in his former lover’s arms. He’d never told him that—maybe he should. 

He inhaled to say so, and Jaskier shushed him, raising his head to gaze at him, chin tucked in the dip between his ribs. 

“No, Geralt, don’t talk yet.”

His jaw dropped at being shushed by the chattering musician and Jaskier laughed. 

“I know how you feel, Geralt,” he said, nestling back in his shirt. “You don’t have to force it. We’ll talk—we will—but right now, just hold me.” 

Geralt nodded, and complied, drawing Jaskier close and shushing the musician’s fresh cries, tears wetting his shirt, and murmuring all the words of comfort Jaskier had given Geralt the day before.

~~~~~~~~~~

_Three Years Ago_

Ciri was so excited for Jaskier’s visit she didn’t sleep the night before, and Geralt only knew because at 3 am she threw open his door in tears, iPad in hand. 

“DADDY!” she wailed, scrunched fist rubbing at her wet eyes. “Jaskier said he was going to FaceTime me on the plane but I only got to talk to him for ten minutes and my iPad died—Daddy, bring Jaskier back!” 

Geralt wasn’t asleep, either...he was more nervous, and excited, than he’d been in years, and was up reading. 

He set aside his book with a gentle laugh and scooped Ciri up in his arms.

He set her iPad on his dresser. “It looks like the connection dropped. I promise he’s okay, he’ll be here soon.”

“But he said he was going to sing to me!” she cried, burrowing in his neck. “I wanted Jaskier to sing to me, Daddy...”

Geralt smiled as he settled them against his pillows and cuddled her close, gathering his comforter around her and brushing his hand through her hair. He grabbed his phone and flipped to YouTube, pulling up the saved playlist he had of Jaskier’s live performances, and clicked the most recent one from a week previous. 

“Close your eyes, Ciri, and pretend it’s Jaskier singing to you, okay?”

She nodded, soft exhale of breath telling him she was already half asleep, and he let the song play, shutting his eyes, too, and letting his heart ache and his body tingle at his boyfriend’s voice, singing merrily and with heart to a tune about lovers reuniting after a long separation.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Between his own nerves and Ciri waking him up at the literal crack of dawn, Geralt only got a couple hours of sleep before piling them both into his truck to go and pick up Jaskier at the airport for his 6 am arrival. When Geralt asked why Jaskier insisted on a Red Eye flight, his musician replied without hesitation that he only had a week with his boyfriend and beloved daughter and he wanted to make use of every possible minute. 

Ciri insisted that they wait at the baggage claim instead of the restaurant where they were originally planning on meeting Jaskier, and Geralt couldn’t believe how much energy she had. She barely got any more sleep than he did, and she was circling the escalators, crawling under and over the chairs, and bouncing up and down in Geralt’s lap, asking every five minutes to have a taste of Geralt’s exceptionally strong coffee.

As 5:30 finally transitioned to 6, Ciri refused to stand anywhere but right at the gate entrance, making fast friends with the airline worker who monitored the desk. Geralt stood nearby, trusting his daughter’s undeniably adorable appearance to make a far better impression than his could, and held his breath as he heard the plane land and the squeal of the tires. 

He was finally here. 

Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he was this nervous, guts churning as he regretted chugging his coffee so fast.

“Is Jaskier finally coming, Daddy?” Ciri squealed as she bolted across the room to tug on his pant leg.

“Yes, baby,” he grinned, meeting the jovial smile of the airline worker as she watched them. 

“Ciri, you can stand next to me, if you want,” the worker said, motioning the seven year old back to her side. 

The tot couldn’t resist such an invitation, even letting herself be picked up and seated on the desk, hanging off the side to watch as the passengers filed through the hallway, down the gate check, and to the airport greeting desk.

His daughter saw Jaskier before Geralt did, and announced her excitement with a shrill shriek as their beloved musician, brown hair ruffled and eyes bright, was seen halfway down, chatting with another passenger, suitcase in one hand and leather bag in the other, his lute case slung over his back. 

Ciri bolted down the causeway, dashing past startled passengers with impressive speed and coordination, and launched herself into Jaskier’s arms, the bard exclaiming with surprise and laughter as he nearly fell backwards under her. He picked her up, kissed her cheek, and hugged her close, forcing the other passengers to file on past him as he savored the moment and held Ciri like he hadn’t seen her in a decade.

All of Geralt’s nerves disappeared and all he felt now was a warm, palpable joy.

Eventually, Jaskier made it down the hall to the baggage claim, his clinging companion in tow, handing his ticket receipt to the airline worker, who beamed from ear to ear and waved at Ciri as they passed.

When Jaskier set down his luggage, Ciri scooted over to hang onto Jaskier’s hip, blonde hair an adorable, frizzy mess as she smiled up at Geralt.

“Jaskier’s here!” she squealed, cuddling onto Jaskier’s shoulder like there was nothing more in the world she could want.

Geralt laughed. “I can see that,” he said, meeting Jaskier’s eye, stomach shivering with butterflies as the musician smiled bashfully, cheeks flushing.

“Hi, Geralt,” he murmured, raising his shining eyes to him and making the earth fall out from underneath him. 

Geralt took Jaskier’s bags and set them aside, stealing his arm around Jaskier’s waist and tugging him forward in a searing kiss.

Ciri giggled and shrieked, covering his face in Jaskier’s shoulder as the bard made a choked noise and wrapped his arm tight around Geralt to pull him closer. 

Geralt was dizzy when he pulled back, savoring the taste of caramel coffee on Jaskier’s tongue and the flaming blush on his cheeks as he gasped for breath.

“I missed you,” Geralt purred, forehead against Jaskier’s.

“Apparently!” Jaskier laughed breathlessly, hiking Ciri higher up on his hip. “I missed you, too,” he murmured against his lips, free hand stroking his cheek. “That first kiss was worth the wait!”

Jaskier giggled, and Ciri giggled, and Geralt grumbled and blushed, and Jaskier tugged him close, giving him another kiss for good measure. 

After convincing Ciri to walk if Jaskier promised to hold her hand, the three of them went to the baggage claim to wait for Jaskier’s suitcase. Geralt hoisted it up on his shoulder when they spotted it, and walked ahead of the two people he loved more than anything in the world as they skipped behind him, Ciri telling Jaskier all about her school and the cute birds in their backyard and the new sundress Nenneke had bought her and the trip she and Geralt took to the zoo last month. 

Jaskier knew about these events in even more detail than Ciri recounted because Geralt had told him. He wasn’t very good at talking about himself, but Jaskier knew how to get him talking when it came to his daughter. The musician didn’t let on that he knew anything, giving Ciri every possible excited reaction and gasp she could’ve hoped for, and allowing her all the space to ramble and rant that even Geralt didn’t have the energy for.

By the time they got to Geralt’s truck on the sixth level of the parking garage, Ciri was winded for how much she was talking, and Jaskier had picked her back up, lightly scolding her for not getting enough sleep the night before. 

“We were excited to see you!” Ciri protested through a yawn. “Daddy was so excited he didn’t sleep, either.”

Jaskier beamed at him at this admission, pinching his arm before wrapping his own around it and kissing his shoulder. 

“You’re adorable, you know that?”

Geralt shook his head, ignoring his burning cheeks as he tousled Ciri’s hair. 

“You two take that category, not me,” he replied as Jaskier cuddled close and leaned on him. 

Geralt let Jaskier buckle Ciri into her booster seat in the back, the blonde dozing as soon he shut the door. 

Glancing into the car to make sure Ciri was actually asleep, Geralt lifted Jaskier’s chin with his hand. 

“Hey,” he murmured, the dark circles under his boyfriend’s eyes even more pronounced in the low light of the parking lot. “Are you alright?” 

Jaskier kissed the tip of his nose and shut his eyes. 

“I’m okay...” He shrugged at Geralt’s raised brows, and said, “I haven’t slept well...I kept having nightmares that something was going to happen, and I wouldn’t see you or Ciri again.”

Jaskier’s eyes filled with tears as he said this, and Geralt sheltered him against his chest, Jaskier breaking down in wet whimpers. 

“I think we all need some good sleep,” Geralt murmured, soothing his hand up and down Jaskier’s back. “You’re here now, we’re alright. Nothing bad happened.”

Jaskier nodded aggressively and Geralt spread his fingers through his brown hair, pressing gently at the back of his neck. The musician mewled at the touch and practically purred at the attention. 

“Remind me to beg you for a massage later,” he drawled, holding Geralt’s forearms in place and leaning back into the touch. 

He pulled his arms free and kissed Jaskier’s forehead as he opened the passenger door. “Let’s go home.”

He didn’t understand the sudden euphoria in Jaskier’s smile, until he realized what he said. 

_Let’s go home._

He wasn’t about to take it back, not with how happy Jaskier looked. And anyway, he didn’t want to. 

As with so many things with Jaskier, it felt right. 

He reached for Jaskier, his shaking hand calming in Geralt’s hold.

“I love you,” Jaskier murmured as they pulled out onto the highway. 

Geralt glanced to the right as he turned, replying with a quick dart of his eyes and a gentle smile, “Jas...I love you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Present Day_

The day passed more slowly than Geralt thought possible. Other than answering Nenneke’s phone call and replying to Zoltan’s text, Geralt did nothing except watch Ciri’s face. It was admittedly not the healthiest way to pass the time, but Jaskier helped keep him distracted for a good measure of the morning, reading to him, singing off-color lyrics that made him laugh, rubbing his shoulders, pressing his hands carefully along the scar of his surgery and gently asking Geralt for details.

Jaskier had gotten up to get a snack from the vending machine, and Geralt suddenly could not stand to watch Ciri’s knotted, greasy hair for one more second. He ducked out into the hallway, going to the nurse’s station to ask for shampoo, and the red-headed nurse (her name was Brittani, and she was one of the sweetest nurses on the rotation) dug out her own travel size shampoo from her locker as well as a couple towels and a hair brush. 

There wasn’t much room to move, with all the tubes and medical tape and straps in the way, but he found a way to slowly wet her hair in a small plastic tub he found, gently massaging the individual blonde lengths between his fingers with a fistful of shampoo and rinsing them out, one by one.

By the time Jaskier got back, a handful of candy bars in tow, Geralt had dried and combed her hair, and was now plaiting the damp lengths into two admittedly-crooked braids along the sides of her nearly-unrecognizable face. 

Jaskier paused in the doorway, watching him, and Geralt could feel the musician’s heart melting from here. 

“Hey,” Geralt murmured, the three loose ends of the second braid between his fingers. 

“Hey,” Jaskier warmly replied, sitting behind him and kissing his temple.

The musician watched as Geralt finished the braid and said, “I’ve always meant to ask you, where did you learn how to do her hair?“

Geralt smiled past the fission of pain in his throat and sat back, fishing in his jeans’ pocket for one of the hair ties he always kept on him.

“Mostly YouTube videos,” he replied as he looped the tie around the end her braid. “Though Iola and Nenneke helped, too. Ciri’s always loved having her hair braided. When she was two, she refused to let anyone but me do her hair. So I had to learn.” He smiled again, freer this time, chest warm at the memory. “It wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be.”

Even covered in tubes and bandages and those scabbed cuts on her face, her hair braided made Ciri look a little more like herself. 

He wished she was awake...he wanted to see her eyes. 

He needed to see those blue eyes again. 

His life was so empty without them. 

He didn’t realize he’d started crying until Jaskier took his shoulder in his hand and squeezed. 

“Jas...” he started, not entirely sure himself what he was going to say.

“I know, love,” Jaskier murmured. “I know.”

They sat like that for a long ten minutes, both of them watching her as though through their collective effort, they could wake her up.

“Geralt,” Jaskier started. “I’m gonna go grab a couple things from my place—do you need anything while I’m gone?”

“You don’t have to come back, Jas,” Geralt replied, rubbing his hand over his burning eyes. 

“Yes—I do,” Jaskier said firmly, and he kissed Geralt’s cheek again. “I just want to get into some real clothes, and grab my lute. Do you need anything while I’m out?” 

Geralt shook his head absentmindedly—the only thing he needed wouldn’t wake up. And the other was standing behind him, petting Geralt’s filthy hair as though it were silk. 

“I’ll be right back,” Jaskier assured him, speaking into the crown of his hair as he kissed the back of his head. “I promise.” 

He nodded, unable to take his eyes off of Ciri, fighting the blaze of fear that burned in his gut that something would happen to Jaskier when he left the hospital, and he’d end up gone, too. 

“Jaskier...”

The musician stopped in the doorway. “Yes, Geralt?”

He was perfect the first day he met him...and he was perfect, now. 

He’d give the skin on his bones to show Jaskier how much light he still shone in his soul, brightening the neglected corners of himself in ways that even Ciri couldn’t. 

There were fantasies Geralt had, that even while they dated, he’d never been brave enough to tell Jaskier about—that he was the warrior in his songs, and Jaskier was his beloved bard, chattering and singing and running along behind his horse as they travelled through one adventure to another. 

He was healing. He was exhilarating. 

He was water to his dry bones.

“Be careful.”

Jaskier’s face melted and he nodded. 

“I will,” he said. “I promise.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Jaskier returned, changed into a teal t-shirt and jeans, lute in hand, backpack on his shoulder, and steaming cups of coffee in his hands. 

“Good news, Geralt! I found out there’s a place where we can both shower in the interim, so I snagged a couple towels and things.”

He stopped halfway inside. 

“Geralt?”

He raised his heavy eyes, hardly able to focus through his exhaustion to look at him. 

“Geralt, honey.”

Warm, gentle fingers held his hands over Ciri’s and Geralt couldn’t help the stifled sob that choked out of his chest, couldn’t help but curl into the blanket and cry.

“Geralt, sweetie.”

Jaskier’s arms were around him, and he turned and wept against his chest. 

He’d never felt this helpless, this scared...not since he was three and his mom dropped him off at a gas station, five dollar bill in his pocket and his play sword in hand, and drove away. 

“She won’t wake up, Jas,” Geralt gasped against Jaskier’s neck, voice choked and wavering into soundless rasps. “Why won’t she wake up?” 

He’d started hyperventilating and wrenched backward when he couldn’t take a full breath and Jaskier framed his arms around him, pressing their foreheads together. 

“Geralt—look at me—“

He somehow managed to open his eyes and started full-body trembling and couldn’t help the squeak of fear that made him sound like a child. He’d never lost control of himself like this before. 

“You’re having a panic attack, Geralt,” Jaskier said. “Just breathe with me, okay?”

He did, in and out for several minutes, the pain and terror finally receding to its manageable state, and Geralt lay spent, and still trembling, against Jaskier’s chest. 

“There we go, love...there we go.” He brushed the sweat and tear-soaked bangs out of Geralt’s eyes and said, “I want you to actually sit in that recliner and sleep.” 

Before Geralt could object, Jaskier stood and drew the curtains closed and urged him to stand, taking him to the chair next to the bed and setting him down in it, fluffing up the pillow behind his head and unfolding the blanket over him. 

It felt so good to lean back...and he was so tired...but he still lurched uptight, tugging on Jaskier’s hand. 

“I don’t want to let go of her,” Geralt whispered. “I don’t want her to feel alone. I can’t do that to her.”

“Not to worry, love...I’ll sit beside her and hold her hand for you. Then I’ll hold your hand. Then she’ll know we’re both here.” 

He sat in Geralt’s place on the bed, and took Ciri’s hand. Geralt’s eyes shut, asleep the moment Jaskier took his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I PROMISE I’m not done with Jaskier’s visit, but there’s so much that’s going to happen with it, I wanted to break it into chunks to give the next chapter more continuity. Apologies for no smut this chapter! But oh man. I WILL MAKE UP FOR IT IN THE NEXT ONE. Tehehehehe 😈😈😈😈😈😛😛😛😛😛  
> Love y’all! Thanks for all the comments and kudos! You won’t be disappointed with what I’m bringing next, I promise.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback within a flashback, with Geralt going over how Ciri’s unexpected presence in his life changed everything, and how it may not stay that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m SO SORRY for how long this has taken me. Depression, quarantine, and life sucks moments have made writing really difficult.  
> But I will promise two things! One, no matter how long between updates, I promise I have the entire story outlined, and will finish it.  
> Two, as a little spoiler treat for y’all sticking it out with me, Ciri survives the car accident and there is a happy ending. 
> 
> Enjoy!!

_Three Years Ago_

Jaskier and Ciri were both asleep by the time Geralt pulled into their driveway, the 7:32 am sunlight giving cheerful atmosphere to the misty Spring morning and filling Geralt with more peace and hope than he’d felt in years...since signing the foster parent paperwork to take Ciri home the night he rescued her. 

He set the parking brake and massaged Jaskier’s shoulder, cupping his cheek and kissing him. 

“Mmnnn...not fair!” Jaskier mumbled, squinting his eyes. “I wasn’t fully awake for that one. I want a do-over smooch.”

Geralt chuckled, murmuring through his lips on Jaskier’s temple, “You’ll get a lot more than a smooch once we get Ciri tucked in and lock ourselves in my room.”

That sent Jaskier bolting upright, eyes open, unashamed eagerness on his face as he opened his door. 

Geralt chuckled and shook his head, nudging him out of the car. 

Jaskier opened Ciri’s door with coos and bits of mumbled lullabies, her whimpered sighs fading back into sleep as he rested her against his shoulder. Geralt popped his trunk and took his first handful of Jaskier’s luggage and followed his boyfriend and dozing daughter up the walkway. 

Jaskier held open the screen, kissing Ciri’s forehead and murmuring,  
“Don’t worry, sweetie, we’re getting you in bed as soon as Daddy unlocks the door.”

He lifted his head at the eerie silence. 

“Geralt—?”

A Notice of Summons, with a deputy’s card paperclipped to the bottom, was taped to the door. 

“Fuck...” Geralt breathed into his hand, pressing his fingers hard into his eyes. 

Ciri stirred, leaning back with eyes closed. “Daddy?”

Jaskier saved him the panic of fumbling a reply. 

“Oh sweet pea, go on back to sleep!” he said, pulling her back to his chest. “Daddy’s just stuck on the knob.” 

Jaskier took Geralt’s keys and unlocked the door, pressing them back in his hand and taking the summons off the door. 

He kissed Geralt’s cheek and slipped the paper to him, murmuring, “I’ll get her tucked in.”

Before Geralt could stutter a reply, Jaskier continued, “I’m not going anywhere, love. You do what you need to do.”

~~~~~~~

Geralt sat on the couch with his head in his hands, stubborn tears wetting his palms. 

He’d called the deputy serving the summons. They would return to formally give him the court documents later that afternoon. 

He’d also called the courthouse, and Nenneke. Left a message for his lawyer friend who owed him a favor.  
All he could do now was relive the night he rescued Ciri, over and over again. And wonder, for the millionth time, if it was what was best for her. 

Ciri’s bedroom door closed, and Geralt heard Jaskier’s footsteps padding up the carpeted hallway toward him. 

“Fell asleep as soon as she hit the pillow,” the musician assured. 

“Good,” Geralt murmured, head still bowed. 

Jaskier sat behind him on the back of the couch, right leg crossed, left leg stretched over armrest. 

“Geralt…” 

He sniffled, raising his head and wiping his eyes. 

Jaskier brushed aside his silver bangs, brow tight in worry. 

“Is it alright if I ask?” 

Geralt stood, walked to the kitchen beside the living room, and hunched over the countertop. If it wouldn’t wake Ciri and startle Jaskier, he’d break every dish in his house. 

“This wasn’t supposed to happen yet,” Geralt murmured. “Not this week. This week was supposed to be for you, Jas.” 

Jaskier leaned across the countertop and held his hand out flat, welcoming. Geralt laced their fingers together, the touch both soothing and nauseating. 

“I didn’t plan it this way,” he murmured, suddenly so tired it was a cruel chore to hold his head upright. He rubbed his hand hard across his eyes and sighed. “I planned to tell you all of this after this week…I didn’t want to ruin this week for you...” 

Jaskier hoisted himself onto the countertop and drew Geralt close, hands caressing up and down his arms. 

“I think we both need some sleep…anything else can wait for a couple of hours, hm?” 

Geralt nodded, unable to object. If he was tired before, he was mortally exhausted now, his limbs dragging him to the floor like lead. 

“The serving officer will be here at 2,” he murmured. 

Jaskier nodded and kissed his cheek. “Come on, love. Before you collapse.” 

He hopped down, tugging on Geralt’s hand toward the master bedroom at the end of the hallway. 

“I’m sorry, Jaskier,” Geralt whispered with jagged tones, throat tight. 

“None of that, love,” the musician replied as he shut the door behind them. “Now take off your shoes, and lay down.” 

They both ended up removing their shoes, their jeans, and curling against each other on his bed, Jaskier tucked under Geralt’s chin after he closed the blinds and drew the curtains, making it just dark enough in the room to feign some rest. 

“Jaskier…” 

“Shhhh…later. Rest now.” 

He was asleep before he could object again.

~~~~~~~~~~

It was inevitable that someone as wealthy, world-renowned, and arrogant as Calanthe Cintra would descend from her throne to fuck up what was the best thing in Geralt’s life. 

He hadn’t told anyone, but he’d started the paperwork with the courthouse and the foster agency to make Ciri’s adoption official—to legally name her not just as his foster daughter, but his legal daughter. To finally let her change her last name to his, as she’d been asking about from the time she could talk. 

He had no idea that Ciri and Calanthe were related. Cintra wasn’t a common name, but it wasn’t an inevitable connection, either.

Calanthe first called a few months back under the guise of a reporter asking for an interview about his bail bondsman work. Geralt played along, quickly finding out two or three questions in that she knew far more than what she was asking for, and after growling out a demand for her to tell him who she really was, he got the first of many experiences with her wrath. 

When she asked to talk to Ciri, he told her no.  
When she demanded a visit with Ciri, he told her hell no. 

When she called to threaten him with legal action, he told her to go fuck herself, and that if she’d really cared about her granddaughter, she would have been a part of her life for the past seven years, instead of only showing up because some dinky paper did a story on the intimidating bail bondsman with a heart of gold.  
Geralt didn’t even want to do the damn interview—Zoltan convinced him after bribing him with his favorite Scotch and the promise of a new security system for the office with the money the publicity would give them. 

Geralt didn’t blame Zoltan for Calanthe swopping in after seeing her late daughter’s name in print as the backdrop to Ciri’s story, though his partner felt more than enough guilt on his own. He did, however, blame Calanthe when her inquiries went from a nuisance to full on harassment, and he had no choice but to tell Ciri. 

She already knew she was adopted—she was an early talker, from two years old asking Geralt any and all questions that came to mind about his work, his life, his family, all of which meant he had to learn incredibly quickly how to address difficult subjects in a way that a small child wouldn’t be traumatized by. 

This, of course, led to her asking about her own family.  
To prepare for that night, Geralt asked Nenneke to look into the old case file, to make sure he didn’t miss anything. In the process, a very cruel and heartbreaking reality unfolded in Calanthe’s reaction to her daughter, Pavetta, being with Duny. 

There were several reports of domestic violence at Calanthe’s mansion, one ending in her being arrested for nearly gouging out Duny’s eye with a letter-opener before Pavetta managed to stop her. She only remained in jail for six hours before her bail was processed, and the charges didn’t stick as a result of Duny’s constantly making threats to her, in person, in writing, over the phone. 

It came to a head when Calanthe found out Pavetta was pregnant. Lambert arrested Duny that night, after he tried to strangle her when Calanthe screamed that she was going to force Pavetta to get an abortion.

Duny’s full-time occupation became drug use instead of just dealing, and by the time Ciri was born in the back alley behind the ER just over six months later, Pavetta was hooked, too. Less than three weeks later, they’d overdosed. 

Nenneke managed to find a few pictures of Ciri’s parents, before the drugs took their toll. Pavetta was beautiful. Same ashen blonde hair as Ciri’s, striking blue eyes, enchanting smile, and that indescribable quality of fascination she drew just from a smile. Duny was less impressive; short, stocky, looking in every picture like he needed a bath and was incapable of smiling—but that may also have been Geralt’s bias towards the bastard that got Pavetta hooked on drugs in the first place, and left Ciri to die. 

He was the reason Ciri ended up at the ER twice in the first week Geralt had her—once for a seizure, the other for nonstop vomiting. The neglected drug withdrawal meant Geralt spent the first two months of his fostering her in the hospital. Ciri was quite ill for some time. Geralt’s already rampant nightmares morphed into hospital waiting rooms, IV tubes, heart rate monitors, the pale face of his daughter on those flat hospital cribs as she slowly recovered from the effects of her parents’ addictions.

Of course, he left all of this out of his explanation to Ciri that late April night as she lay curled up in his lap, her favorite gray blanket wrapped around them, her chin propped on his knee. He told her that her parents had died (he was never one to mince the truth; after Ciri found a kitten run over in front of their house, Geralt had to explain what death was), and that Geralt was there that night Nenneke brought her in to the station; that he held her for the first time and never wanted to let her go, that she was his foster child in the eyes of the law, but that she was his family, his daughter, beyond anything the courts said. 

He then stuttered through a brief explanation of Calanthe, and that he wasn’t sure what was going to happen. With a tight throat and closed eyes, he whispered that he may not get to stay her dad, but that no matter what happened he loved her, and that she was the best thing in his life. 

He didn’t realize he was crying until Ciri wiped the tears off his cheeks with the palms of her hands, and burrowed her head into his neck, hiding in his hair, whimpering that he was her real dad, that she loved her daddy and wasn’t ever going to leave. 

Nenneke passed along tissues for them both, a used one in her hand from her own tears, and got the tubs of ice cream she bought, and the three of them had an impromptu movie night, eating sundaes and watching Beauty and the Beast, Nenneke and Ciri singing along and using their spoons as microphones. 

When Geralt tucked Ciri in, she wrapped her arms tight around his neck and whispered, “I love you, Daddy,” over and over again. Before he could bear to break away from her, she whimpered, “Please don’t let them take me.” 

That was the first time he’d cried himself to sleep since he was a child.

That demon in gold eyeshadow and black hair extensions had enough money and connections to take Ciri by force—or to wipe him from existence with a single phone call. 

All he wanted was to make his little family, his little corner of warmth and love and security, finally his. 

That wasn’t going to happen now—not while Calanthe had him in her sights. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~

He laid his arm over his eyes, speaking into the crook of his elbow, Jaskier tucked into his side. He was glad they’d stripped bare to cuddle skin on skin—even his comforter felt stifling. 

“She’s never going to leave me alone, Jas...She’ll never let Ciri be my daughter. She’s going to fight every single day, drag this out in court for years, until I’m out of money and sanity. And what about Ciri? She doesn’t deserve to go through this…but I can’t not fight for her…she’s all I have.”

Jaskier inhaled sharply, and Geralt paused, nuzzling into the crown of his hair. “I’m still getting used to having you, my lark. I’m sorry.” He traced his fingertips over the back of his shoulders, smiling at his shiver. “I love you. So fucking much.” 

“I know,” the musician hummed happily. He sat up, kissed him, and resumed his head’s place on his shoulder and his arm’s around Geralt’s waist. “It’s okay. Really.”

He’d just finished telling Jaskier the whole story—how Ciri came into his life, her family background, Calanthe’s sudden appearance. He’d spoken more in the past two hours than he’d had in months—but Jaskier was usually the one who witnessed his increase in conversation, anyway, even as rare as it was. 

“Why didn’t you tell me before, love?” Jaskier murmured, fingers stroking gently through his chest hair, stilling his hand over his heart. “I shouldn’t have come out…goodness knows you’re under enough stress.” 

Geralt cupped his chin and pulled him in for a lingering kiss, one that sent shivers to the tips of his toes, Jaskier curling over him.

“I wanted you here, Jaskier,” he breathed when he pulled back. “No matter what’s going on. I would’ve told you if I didn’t.” 

Jaskier nodded.

“So what are you going to do?” he asked. “Is there anything I can do? I have more than enough connections of my own—”

Geralt shook his head. “There isn’t anything you can do without making me fear for your safety—Calanthe is…a special kind of beast. She’s already threatened both Zoltan and Nenneke…I don’t want to add any other names to her list.” He drew his arms around his lover. “Just give me and Ciri a week of fun distractions—before the reality of this hits us.”

Jaskier wrapped his leg around Geralt’s, avoiding his eye. 

“…What is it, Jas?” Geralt murmured into his hair. 

“I figured something crazy would happen during my visit,” he said. “I just didn’t think it would be like this, let alone on the first day. It sounds ridiculous, but I feel like this is partially my fault. I bring…difficult things with me.” 

Geralt’s chest ached, and he wished he could reach into that beloved heart and kiss away the hurts that made him think something so untrue. 

“You’ve brought me nothing but good, my love. And I mean that.” 

He wished he was better at articulating his thoughts—like Jaskier was. 

He kissed Geralt’s palm, holding it against his cheek. 

“…I’m so glad, for Ciri’s sake, that you took her in. That you loved her and…saved her from so many worse things. Whatever happens with Calanthe, I want you to know that. Thank you for keeping her from a life like I had, before I got out.” 

He shut his eyes, and Geralt’s heart ached. 

“Jas…”

“I’m alright,” he murmured. “I promise.” He opened his eyes and smiled a teary smile. “I’m just…so glad you’re you.” 

He raised his head, hair tousled and wavy, curling in front of his eyes, and Geralt took an especially long time brushing the bangs off his forehead. Jaskier shivered, kissing the tips of Geralt’s fingers as he drew them down his chest and through the pubic hair curling above his cock. 

“...Geralt...” Jaskier breathed.

“Wanna sneak a quickie?” Geralt purred, tugging him forward. “She won’t be asleep much longer.”

The musician nodded desperately and kissed down his neck, straddling his lap and rolling his hips. 

“This is so much better in person,” Jaskier groaned in Geralt’s ear. 

He was right—it was infinitely more consuming, terrifying, exhilarating this way, and he fumbled in his bedside table for his lube, popping the cap and surrendering it into Jaskier’s grabbing hands, both their hard dicks held against each other in the musician’s calloused fingers. 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Geralt gasped.  
Jaskier chuckled and panted, pawing his free hand at Geralt’s mouth. 

“Shhhh…we want at least one day without getting caught.” 

They both laughed and soon fell into a rise and fall rhythm, Geralt pressing his feet flat to the bed and letting the movement of his hips bring Jaskier chest to chest with him, his lover’s hand haphazardly pulling and jerking, quickly losing rhythm as they panted and gasped. 

“Geralt…are you close?” Jaskier breathed through clenched teeth. 

“Yes—go ahead, Jas—cum for me, baby.” 

Biting the crook of Geralt’s neck, Jaskier groaned and wheezed as he spilled over their chests, the pricks of his teeth making Geralt seize and cum, too, emptying him of breath as he stifled his own moans of pleasure. 

“You said Nenneke would babysit one night I was here, right?” Jaskier gasped, squishing their mess between them as he collapsed in Geralt’s arms. 

He laughed, a bit of the tension easing in his chest. 

“Yes, on Wednesday. Then we can be as loud as we want.” 

“Thank god,” Jaskier chuckled, kissing the bite mark on Geralt’s neck. 

“Did you break the skin?” he asked, pressing tentatively at the tender area. 

Jaskier shook his head. “Nah. Pretty close, though.” He smiled that carnivorous smile and Geralt shivered from head to toe, making Jaskier laugh. 

The musician kissed the injured skin again and grabbed the tissue box on the bedside table, cleaning both of them off with gentle, soothing caresses. If Geralt weren’t so anxious, he would’ve fallen asleep under the touch.

“You said the officer was coming at 2?” 

The reminder stabbed through his chest like ice. 

“Yes.” 

Jaskier nodded, keeping his eyes on the movement of Geralt’s stomach, rising and falling with his breath. 

“I’m so scared,” Geralt whispered, unable to stop himself. “What if I lose her?” 

“You won’t,” Jaskier replied without hesitation. 

He tugged Geralt close, pressing his ear to his chest, letting him drown in his heartbeat. 

“I have an idea.” Jaskier leaned back, spreading his fingers over the bedspread, brushing his fingers back and forth against Geralt’s thigh. “But it might upset you. So just hear me out first, okay?”

He nodded, taking Jaskier’s hand. 

“Even before we met, I’d been…looking to make a change.” 

He sighed under an invisible weight, and Geralt opened his arms in welcome. Jaskier smiled in relief and rested against his chest, urging his arms around him. 

“Even the thought of being apart again,” he continued, “especially now, makes me sick to my stomach.” 

He hummed, Geralt smiling at Jaskier’s distractible habit.

“Go ahead, Jas…I’m not going anywhere.”

He huffed, sighed, and said in a rush of words, “There’s a rented studio a half hour from here, that my recording label owns. I’m gonna call them and insist they reopen it for me.” 

Geralt’s vision swam, and the hand holding Jaskier trembled. He could live a thousand years, and never begin to deserve this man. 

“Are you upset with me, love?” Jaskier asked, raising his head, eyes wet and brow furrowed. “I don’t want to overwhelm you, but I don’t want to leave you to fight this alone…and besides...a week is nowhere near long enough for me to want to be with you…”

Geralt blinked away his tears and smiled, a comfort washing over him as he cupped Jaskier’s face with his hands.  
“I don’t want you to uproot your life because of me,” he murmured. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want you here.”

The fear in Jaskier’s eyes disappeared and he surged forward, making Geralt chuckle in surprise at the tongue twirling its way into his mouth. He indulged their lapping kiss, ignoring his aching hard-on as he urged Jaskier back. 

“Are you sure about this?” he asked. “You don’t have to, and it won’t be that easy. Work is busier than ever, and Ciri has a lot of school activities—this will be a lot more than I think you’re expecting. Add that to the upcoming custody court dates…” He paused. “I don’t want you to regret staying down here.”

Jaskier rested their foreheads against each other, kissing the tip of Geralt’s nose. 

“I could never regret you,” he whispered, as though revealing a deep secret.

Geralt breathed in, and out, counted to three. 

This wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t still asleep. 

Jaskier was actually here, and was wanting to stay. 

“There’s only a question about where I’ll live,” Jaskier started. 

He was bashfully avoiding Geralt’s eye now, cheeks an adorable shade of crimson.

“I happen to have a king mattress that you’re more than familiar with now,” Geralt said, tugging on the bright orange sheets underneath them. “I have more than enough pillows for both of us. And god knows Ciri is going to squeal bloody murder when she finds out you’re staying here.” 

Here Jaskier raised his head again. “Are you sure? …You really want me to stay here?” 

“I want you to stay here.” 

Jaskier whooped and threw his arms around him, laughter turning into tears as he cuddled back against him. 

“Oh my darling…” His voice caught. “You and Ciri are more family than I’ve ever had in my life…I love you both so much.” 

Geralt smiled and kissed him. “We love you, too.” 

They’d just tugged the blanket back over them when the door flew open and Ciri came bounding across the room, landing between the men and cuddling up against Geralt with a squeal and a giggle. 

“Daddy!! You promised we’d go to the zoo today and that you’d make a peacock chase Jaskier!” 

The musician gasped dramatically and crossed his arms across his chest, Geralt laughing as he tucked Ciri against him. 

“Alright, Ciri, alright,” Geralt assured, smiling and kissing her forehead. “I have to wait for something, but after that we’ll go, I promise.” 

Jaskier’s smile faded as he tugged on his boxers and jeans, Geralt ignoring his gaze as he held Ciri tighter. 

“That’s okay, Daddy!” Ciri replied. “I don’t mind waiting.” 

Geralt rubbed her back. “I know, baby. Thank you.” 

Jaskier pressed Geralt’s shoulder and smiled a sad smile. 

“We love you, baby girl,” Geralt murmured into her hair.  
Ciri raised her head, looking from Geralt to Jaskier and back. She tugged Jaskier to sit beside her and wrapped her arms around them, kissing both their cheeks. 

“I love you, too!” 

Where their arms met across her back, Jaskier and Geralt laced their fingers together, and Geralt never felt more grateful for any two people in his entire life. 

He hoped he got to keep them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be another flashback, featuring Calanthe in all her badass and rather terrifying glory, and Geralt fighting tooth and nail to keep Ciri in his life.  
> Also more Geraskier smut because I LOVE THEM.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this continued flashback, Geralt meets with his attorney for pre-trial preparation, and Jaskier and Ciri fly back to his house to pack up things for the move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Omg this one has SO much fluff and I loved every minute. 
> 
> Also, I know I’m hard on Yen in this, but I do really like her in the show, the books, and the game, as problematic as she is in and of herself and with Geralt; I’m hoping to someday write a Yen/Geralt fic, but for now, the more unstable Yen remains as one of the catalysts for conflict in this fic. Mea culpa, but Geraskier is my ship 😅😅

_Three Years Ago_

It was a month before the first court date. Geralt had been flying solo the past few days—Jaskier had taken Ciri with him to his house in northern California to pack up what he’d need to make the move real and permanent. 

When Geralt took them to the airport, Ciri was so excited she bolted from the truck into the airport lobby and Jaskier had to run after her while Geralt got their bags. 

Ciri was eventually wrangled into temporary submission with Jaskier carrying her back, squirming and laughing around his arm. Geralt managed to get a hyperactive kiss and a half-hug from his daughter before she tried to run away again, Jaskier stopping her with a quick hold on her wrist. 

“Ciri, I’ll buy one of those adorably awkward wrist leashes for you if the entire trip is going to be like this!” Jaskier exclaimed, an edge of nerves in his jovial voice. 

Geralt grinned and winked at him, kneeling down in front of Ciri and taking both of her hands. 

“Daddy Daddy Daddy I’M SO EXCITED!!” she squealed, jumping up and down and wriggling in Geralt’s hands. “We’re gonna go to the beach and the arcade and the water park and the zoo and—“ 

Jaskier laughed nervously and Geralt chuckled and shook his head. 

“Now, Ciri, remember—Jaskier is taking you with him to help him pack so he can move back here with us.”

This resulted in fresh squeals of excitement and Ciri launched herself at Jaskier, who barely managed to catch her and hang her on his hip.

“Ciri,” Geralt said, lowering his voice and trying to hide his amused grin. “I need you to listen to me, okay? This is very important.”

The last word made Ciri stop laughing mid-breath and she nodded her head, suddenly the most serious seven year old in the world. 

“Okay, Daddy,” she whispered, as though exchanging nuclear secrets. “I’m listening, I promise.”

Geralt looked up at Jaskier’s stifled smile and back at Ciri. 

“I’m trusting you to make sure nothing happens to Jaskier. He stays with you the entire time. Don’t let him out of your sight unless you’re sleeping or going to the bathroom. Do you understand?”

Ciri nodded exuberantly, squirming back onto the ground and holding Jaskier’s hand as though she were his security escort.

“I promise, Daddy. I won’t let anything happen to Jaskier.”

Geralt smiled and kissed her forehead. 

“Thank you, baby. I knew I could count on you.” 

He nudged Jaskier’s leg. “See? You’ll be fine. She won’t let anything happen to you.” 

Jaskier’s understanding grin made Geralt feel warm to the tips of his toes, and he stood, stroking Jaskier’s cheek with his thumb and bringing him close for a light, soft kiss—one so tender, it broke Geralt’s heart. 

“I’m gonna miss you,” Jaskier whispered against his lips, kissing him again. 

“It’s just a week,” Geralt murmured, saying it more for himself than Jaskier. 

“Exactly,” Jaskier purred, lips dancing across his before pulling back and pressing his hand. “I’ll call you as soon as we land.” 

Tears stung Geralt’s eyes as Ciri ran forward and hugged his legs for dear life.

He’d never told anyone, but he cried every time he had to say goodbye to Ciri to leave on a trip. 

It wasn’t like he and Ciri hadn’t been apart—hell, they’d been separated for an entire month when Ciri was four and one of his bail jumpers got from one coast to the other before Geralt finally caught him. 

But still…he couldn’t shake those initial fears of permanent separation—especially now. Having Jaskier here just made it harder to hold back until he got to his truck. 

“Daddy?” Ciri asked, tugging on his hand. “Are you okay?”

He sniffed and turned his head, wiping his hand across his face. 

“Don’t worry, sweetums, Daddy’s just got allergies,” Jaskier assured her, running his hand over Geralt’s shoulders before leaning in and whispering, “You alright?”

“Yeah,” Geralt whimpered with a thick voice. “Go ahead—I don’t want her to see me like this—“

“DADDY!” 

Both men turned with surprise at Ciri’s commanding tone, and Ciri had both arms crossed, concern and irritation on her little face. 

“Don’t pretend you’re okay, Daddy,” she said sternly, tugging on his pant leg until he knelt down to her level. “You tell me not to pretend when I don’t feel good! So you shouldn’t either. That’s lying, right?” 

Jaskier’s lips quirked in a concerned smile as he shrugged. Geralt dropped his shoulders in defeat. 

“You’re right, baby,” he said, unable to hide the tremor of tears in his voice now. “I’m not okay…I’m going to miss you and Jaskier very much, and seeing you leave makes me sad.”

Ciri wrapped her arms around his neck and hugged him, Geralt drawing her close and shutting his eyes tight as his tears dripped into her hair. 

“It’s okay, Daddy,” she said. “I promise I’ll text and call you every day!” 

“We sure will!” Jaskier reassured, squeezing Geralt’s shoulder. “I’m sorry you couldn’t get the time off work, love.”

Geralt shrugged. 

“Can’t be helped.” He kissed Ciri’s forehead and stood up. “This will be good for both of you. You’ll have a lot of fun.”

Ciri nodded and raised her arms to Jaskier, who chuckled and picked her up, his other hand taking the luggage handle, stacked with bags. 

“Love you,” Jaskier said with a sad smile. 

“Love you, Daddy!” Ciri chimed in, cheek pressed against Jaskier’s. 

“I love you, too,” Geralt said, forcing a smile. 

He watched them file through roped-off area into airport security, and turned with firm steps to his truck outside. 

He cried harder than usual on his drive home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A couple days later, Geralt was sitting in yet another pre-trial meeting. 

He hated trial preparation when he was just a witness—he hated it even more as a defendant. 

Ciri and Jaskier’s meetings would be the following week—Geralt had asked for that, to give them the chance to enjoy their trip without any additional stress.  
He and Jaskier had, however, started trying to explain to Ciri what the court proceedings would be like, and that she may be asked to answer questions in front of a judge and lawyers, and that all she needed to do was tell the truth. 

To that end, Geralt had been in touch with Tissaia, his lawyer friend from decades past, back when he was a newbie bounty hunter and got sued by a wealthy jumper who tried to manipulate the law, and whom Tissaia tore to shreds without even leaving her chair. The bail jumper crumbled, gave in to the sentencing from the judge, and never bothered Geralt again. 

He tried to pay Tissaia even the small amount he could afford, but she refused, insisting that her pro bono portfolio always needed filling, and that she might call in a favor from him someday. She did a few months later, when her goddaughter was being harassed by an ex-boyfriend—one of the few times Geralt enjoyed using his bulk and intimidation. Ever since then, Tissaia and he had kept in contact and remained friends. 

She was also the reason he and Yennefer met…a fact he wasn’t too keen on remembering as he sat in the De Vries Legal office conference room across from his attorney ex-girlfriend, who was dressed in a stunning maroon silk blouse, untucked and unbuttoned and revealing her favorite black lace lingerie tank top that she always worse beneath her clothes—one he was…familiar with.

He knew it was on purpose...and he hated how much it unnerved him. 

The first time they’d fucked, in the back of her car after one too many shots at Tissaia’s annual Christmas party nearly sixteen years ago, felt like every time. Rough, merciless, lonely. Addicting. 

Geralt lost count of the number of times he hated himself after fucking her. But he’d never felt more alive than when he made her cum—shrieking with release and pleasure and clinging to him with those razor-like fingernails. 

If she’d waited longer than five minutes afterward, they might have made it—if she gave him the chance to come down lightly…to not come crashing down hard, gasping for air when he’d wake up and find her gone, again and again and again. She never wanted him to hold her, cuddle her, touch her longer than necessary—unless they were fucking. 

He’d tried to ask her why, the night before she broke up with him—she slapped him so hard his lip was numb for a week.

Yennefer sucked on the cap of her pen and flipped through a stack of paperwork nearly as high as Geralt’s torso. They’d just gone through the basics of the questions she was going to ask him, again, as well as probable questions Phillippa, Calanthe’s lawyer, might ask, and Yen refused to let him leave until she’d gone through her notes one more time to make sure she hadn’t missed anything.

“We need to be in our seats by quarter to 8 that morning...Judge Rawlins lives by the clock, and it’ll give us brownie points to be there early.” 

Geralt huffed. “Yen…”

“As far as clothing goes, I want you to wear that navy blue suit with the gray silk shirt that I bought you last year…you’ll look fancy enough, and sad enough, to garner favor in court. Plus you look hot as hell in it, which won’t hurt, either. And Ciri should wear that adorable pink flower dress she wore when I took her to the theater a couple months back.” 

Geralt scrubbed his hand hard across his face.  
“Yen…I’d asked for Tissaia. Can you at least tell me why she’s pulled you into this now?”

Yennefer sighed, lowering the flipped page and resting her pen on her notepad.

“Geralt…”

“I know we’re getting along better…” He forced his eyes away from its traitorous path along the lace fringes framing her breasts. “But I don’t think this is the best idea.”

“Child custodies are my speciality, and besides, Calanthe and Tissaia have a…history…that she was afraid would taint the proceedings if she represented you.” She rested her hand on his forearm, and her normally sharp gaze softened. “You know I’m only here to help. I love her, too. I don’t want Ciri separated from you, either.”

He squeezed her hand. “I know.”

She returned to skimming her paperwork, scribbling a note in the margins. 

Despite his misgivings, he couldn’t deny that Ciri and Yen hit it off extremely well—Ciri adored her Aunt Yennefer, and Yen was just as thrilled about the relationship. 

She took Ciri to museums and parks and Wiccan festivals and costume shops—a lot of the daytime things Geralt could almost never make, and for that, he was grateful. Ciri soaked up the culture like a sponge in water, and he’d give every last cent he had to witness Ciri’s unhindered joy at the stack of antique spell books piled to her chin in her tiny arms, or the stuffed animals she carried with her that Yen won for her at the carnival, or the dried flowers woven through her hair at the renaissance faire that Yennefer sold oils and candles and herbs at in the summer. 

However ill-suited she and Geralt were for each other romantically, Yennefer adored being a surrogate godmother for Ciri. And, as much as he hated to admit it, it did Geralt’s heart good to see Yen so happy and fulfilled in the role. 

His thoughts inevitably went to Jaskier, and he pulled out his phone, rereading the last text Jas sent him: 

_Morning lovey!! Going to the water park with Ciri. Promise I’ll text you when we get back! 😘😘😘❤️❤️❤️_

He smiled, the tension in his chest easing at remembering the night before Jaskier left. He shifted in his chair, tamping those thoughts down. 

“If these nerves are about your famous boyfriend, you don’t need to worry,” Yennefer said, a bite in her laugh as she though guessed his thoughts. “I won’t scare him off.”

“His fame has nothing to do with why we’re together.”

Her lips spread in that devilish smile that still sparksd fire deep in his gut and she twirled her pen up and down her fingertips. 

“Oh, I know that. I just like getting a rise out of you. Besides, you’re adorable when you blush.”

He covered his warm cheek with the back of his hand and grumbled again, sinking lower in his chair. 

“Jaskier’s a good man,” Geralt said, as though the opposite had been implied.

“I wouldn’t dream of suggesting otherwise, love,” Yennefer replied, eyes back on her pages. 

“Don’t call me that,” Geralt growled. “Especially when you meet Jaskier next week.” 

“Why? Are you afraid he’ll think I’m trying to steal you away?”

His brow quirked, lips tight. “Aren’t you?” 

She held his gaze for a long time, eventually dropping her eyes to the clawing of her fingers along the side of her black skirt. 

He had no doubt she was thinking of the same night he was—Geralt coming home to find Yen screwing her old law school colleague in his bed. He didn’t even get the chance to give the asshole a black eye—while the coward bolted out the back door, Yennefer shrieked bloody murder, screaming at Geralt that he’d ruined her life, that she hated every minute they were together, that he made her hate herself and that she wished she’d never met him. 

He still didn’t know what caused it—if it was just the culmination of too many years of a mutually destructive relationship with only mere moments of actual affection, or if she realized she’d never really loved him, and Geralt had been lying to himself to keep from having to face the dark nights alone. 

“You’re not a man! You’re a fucking _MONSTER_!” she’d screeched, tears pouring down her cheeks where she clutched the front door frame, broken plates and picture frames littering the front sidewalk. 

Blood trickled from between his clenched fingers, where her nails had gouged his bicep so deep, he felt lightheaded. 

He managed to get back inside to get his car keys and wallet when she locked herself in his room, and after getting a shot of antibiotics and a heavy painkiller at the closest Urgent Care, he got drunk off his ass and slept it off in his truck; he slept there for a week until Nenneke found out and made him stay on her couch until he called the cops to get Yen out of his place. 

Fifteen years later, here she was, right on cue—convincing herself she wanted the admitted worst relationship she’d ever had. The last time she’d tried this, a year before Geralt found Ciri, she shattered a window with her hairdryer when he told her they were never going to be in a relationship again. After eight stitches on his jaw, he’d hoped that would be the end of it. 

Apparently not. 

He missed Jaskier so fucking much. 

“I don’t know what you see in him that you don’t see in me,” she whispered. 

“You were miserable when we were together, Yen,” he muttered. “You hated being with me.” 

Her look soured. 

“We’re not good for each other,” he continued, trying his best to sound gentle and not aggravated. “I bring out the worst in you, and I hate that. I hate what I do to you.” 

Yennefer’s eyes narrowed. “Now you care about me?” 

“I’ve always cared,” he said, defeated. “But I don’t want you back, Yen. And if you’re honest with yourself, you don’t want me, either.” 

She glared at him. “Don’t tell me what I want, Geralt.” 

He stood. “This is why I didn’t want you to take my case...I can’t afford any mishaps with this, Yen. There’s too much I’m risking.” He leaned back against the table, eyes closed as he said, “I’m trusting you with my life. If I lose Ciri...I don’t know what I’ll do.” 

Yennefer stood and turned Geralt to face her, the touch of her hand on his shoulder sending shivers across his chest. 

“Our past aside, I’m still the best lawyer in the city.” She cleared her throat, some normalcy returning to her voice. “Nothing matters more to me than keeping you and Ciri together.” 

He nodded, fighting the urge to despair in response to a promise he knew she meant. 

He shrugged off her hand, returning to his chair for his jacket. 

“Is there anything else we need to go over today?” 

Yen shook her head. “No…not today. I’ll be by next week to go over a few things with Ciri…I figured it would be better to talk to her at home—make it more comfortable so she doesn’t get scared.” 

Geralt nodded in agreement. “That’s a good idea. I’ll let her know—she’ll be excited to see you.” 

“Is Jaskier flying back with her?” 

He lowered his head, cheeks flushing. 

“Yes…he’s—moving in with me.” 

Yennefer’s mouth dropped. 

“Oh…congratulations,” she said. “Must be serious.” 

He couldn’t have ignored the pain in his chest if he tried. 

“I would’ve moved in with you after a month,” he murmured, hardly audible even to himself. “If you’d let me.” 

He folded his jacket over his arm and pushed in his chair. “I have to go…I have an early morning appointment tomorrow—Henderson’s mother’s posting his bail again.” 

Yennefer’s voice stopped him from making it out of her office unscathed. 

“Do you ever miss me, Geralt?” 

He paused in the doorway. 

“I used to,” he replied simply. “But not for the reasons I should’ve.” 

“Ouch,” Yen snapped. She turned her back to him, watching the city lights outside her window glittering in the early evening. “Goodbye, Geralt.” 

~~~~~~~~~~~~ 

As soon as he was out of the shower that night, he checked his phone for the trillionth time, and finally found a text from Jaskier, and about thirty picture and video messages from Ciri. Most of them were of her squealing and running away from Jaskier, who apparently didn’t know that she’d brought her phone to the waterpark, while others were taken from Jaskier’s perspective, Ciri riding on Jaskier’s bodyguard Annette’s shoulders, the woman’s usually sour face spread in a smile and both of them waving. Another was recorded by Annette, showing Jaskier stealing a tuft of cotton candy off the paper cone in Ciri’s hand and her sneezing and spreading sticky sugar boogers all over a mortified Jaskier, Annette nearly dropping the phone from laughing so hard. 

Geralt’s favorite video was recorded in the cab after they left the park. Jaskier was out cold, asleep and snoring against the seat, and Ciri arranged Jaskier’s limp arms around her and lay against his chest, just as she always did when she crawled in with Geralt, and kissed Jaskier’s cheek before tucking her head under his chin. Within a few seconds, she was asleep, too. 

Geralt FaceTimed Jaskier’s number and pinched the tears out of his eyes as it rang. 

Ciri answered, squealing in excitement and nearly deafening Geralt even from here. 

“DADDY!” 

He laughed. “Hello, baby. Looks like you had fun today!” 

That’s all it took to launch his daughter into a tirade of every possible detail of their day, and Geralt got himself comfortable against his pillows to listen, cheeks hurting from smiling so hard—god, he missed her. They’d only been gone a few days and it felt like a year. 

About ten minutes in, Jaskier appeared in the background and waved, Geralt stifling a chuckle at his obvious exhaustion as Jaskier sat on the couch and pulled Ciri onto his lap as she continued her story. 

Half an hour in, Ciri had only gotten to when they’d stopped at the park’s diner to eat and was starting to yawn, Jaskier echoing the gesture next to her, his eyes drifting shut. Geralt’s gut clenched, and he couldn’t help but be disappointed—he was hoping he and Jaskier could have some… _fun_ tonight, but he understood how exhausting his daughter could be. 

“Ciri?” Geralt called, her own tired eyes opening again at the sound of her name. “Why don’t you head off to bed and we’ll finish the story in the morning, okay?” 

She nodded, telling him she loved him through a yawn, and hopped off the couch. 

“Goodnight Jaskier,” Ciri mumbled, giving Jaskier his phone and holding open her arms for a hug, which he happily gave. 

“Goodnight, darling,” he said, kissing her forehead. “I’ll see you in the morning.” 

She nodded, disappearing from the screen, her feet padding down the hallway, followed by a closing door. 

“She doesn’t want you to tuck her in?” Geralt asked in mild surprise. 

Jaskier smirked, an edge of self-pity on his face. “I’ve offered, but she said only you get to tuck her in.” 

That made Geralt burst out laughing, both for how much joy that gave him and how adorably jealous Jaskier looked admitting that. 

“Jas, it’s not you, I promise,” Geralt tried to soothe through a still-chuckling voice. “When Nenneke first started watching her, she wouldn’t go to sleep period until she talked to me on the phone. Once, I had to prop this handcuffed guy against the side of my truck when she called because I knew if I didn’t tell her goodnight that second, Nenneke would never let me hear the end of it.” 

That made Jaskier laugh and Geralt laughed with him, glad to hear the sound. 

“You look done for,” he said. 

“I am,” Jaskier said. “That kid is lucky she’s sweet as candy. If she was mean with that kind of energy we’d need an exorcist.” 

They laughed again and Jaskier yawned, making Geralt’s heart sink further. 

“Go to bed, my lark,” Geralt said. “We can talk again in the morning.” 

Jaskier’s eyes immediately perked up and he shook his head back and forth as he stood, making his way down the hallway to his room. 

“Oh no, don’t you dare! We aren’t putting this off—the one thought that kept me stumbling on aching feet to the same rides over and over again today was remembering that I’d get to see you naked at some point.” 

Geralt flushed to the tips of his ears and laughed behind his hand, relief flooding through him. Even if they didn’t do much, it would be nice to have a distraction from the pre-trial prep, and Yen. 

Jaskier must have picked up on his nerves because his brow furrowed as he watched Geralt undress. 

“Bad day, love?” 

Geralt didn’t see the point in denying it, but he didn’t want to go into detail, either. 

“Yeah,” he grumbled, tossing his clothes on the floor and digging in his the top of his closet for his lube. 

“Yen in a surly mood again?” Jaskier asked, an edge to his kind voice. 

“Always,” Geralt chuckled. 

“Do I need to be worried about what happened?” he pressed, the concern obvious in his voice as he shut and locked his bedroom door. 

Geralt smiled, settling back into bed and letting the phone rest against his pillow, giving Jaskier a view of his naked torso, his half-hard cock just visible at the edge of the screen. 

“No,” Geralt rumbled, his already-gravelly voice sounding rougher than normal. “You don’t.” 

Jaskier groaned, practically salivating as his voice took on that dom authority that made Geralt beg. 

“Then we should get started, shouldn’t we?” he purred, uncapping the lid on his lube and tugging down his shorts. 

He could wait another three days. It wasn’t going to kill him to wait to cum—though tonight, Geralt thought it would—Jaskier had a _dirty_ mouth and an even dirtier mind, and would drive Geralt to the edge of release faster than he thought possible even in his twenties, let alone now in his forties—only to be taken back from the ecstasy of releasing with a firm reprimand—the threat repeated that if Geralt came before Jaskier got back, Jaskier would punish him. 

“That’s a good boy,” Jaskier soothed, his authoritative voice strained and rough. “Such a good boy for me. I knew you could do it.” 

Geralt had already torn through one pillowcase since Jaskier had left, and was clutching the remains of another. 

“Don’t make me listen this time,” he begged, fighting back tears. “I can’t hear you cum again and not lose it—I can’t—“ 

The slick tightening of flesh on flesh off-camera stopped and Jaskier’s soft smile returned. 

“All you have to do is use your word, love,” Jaskier panted, his murmur understanding and affectionate. “I won’t ever hold it against you to tap out.” 

Geralt was so hard he was shaking, hips thrusting forward into nothing. 

“I—I don’t know—Jas…” 

“Geralt…look at me…” 

The hand holding his phone was trembling, and every breath he took brought him closer to flipping over into the mattress and humping it with all his might. 

_Fuck_ , what that man did to him. 

“Be honest with me, darling,” Jaskier murmured as he swiped sweat-soaked bangs out of his eyes. “Can you make it until Thursday? It’s really okay if you can’t…I don’t want you to lose sleep or, worse, get distracted at work. I want this to be fun for you, not the bad kind of painful.” 

Geralt grit his teeth, swallowed his pride, and muttered, “Just once—let me cum once…I’ll be good for the rest of the time, I promise—“ 

He could hardly speak now, his entire body going taut at even the mention of finding relief he’d needed for days. 

Jaskier’s predatory smirk returned, edged with that addicting delight that shot through Geralt’s body like liquid ecstasy. 

“Good boy, telling me what you need…you deserve a reward for that...you get to choose how you cum…do you want it in your hand, on your bed, in your fleshlight?” 

The thought of digging through the boxes in his closet for his fleshlight made him sob into his clenched fist. 

“Can’t move—please, Jas—just tell me I can—oh _God_ —!” 

“You can, baby!” Jaskier choked. “You can cum—“ 

Jaskier was jerking off again—Geralt could hear the hitch in his tight breath as he watched Geralt turn over onto his stomach and start thrusting his hips into the bunched sheets, the pressure and rough fabric just perfect on his throbbing dick. 

Geralt grunted and gasped and wheezed, propping his phone on the wall in front of him and watching Jaskier start to come apart. 

“D-do you want to see my face or my dick, love?” Jaskier bit, eyes screwed tight. 

“—Face—your face—oh _fuck_!” 

His entire body seized and locked into one trembling muscle as he came harder than he ever remembered cumming, Jaskier following behind him by a few breaths. 

Every orgasm with him felt like the first in twenty years. 

Even though they were hundreds of miles apart, coming down from the high with Jaskier felt like they were laying together, skin on skin, Jaskier murmuring praises and humming and telling Geralt to get the tissues and a glass of water and to change his sheets. 

All the post-coital chores taken care of, Geralt and Jaskier laid down with their call still going, and Jaskier, already half-asleep, mumbled,  
“Stay on the line for me?” 

Geralt chuckled. “Yes, Jaskier. I’ll keep the line open.” 

“Mmmm…sing to me?” 

He sighed, fighting an embarrassed smile. “Fine.” 

Jaskier smiled, eyes closed, and Geralt cleared his throat and mumble-sang a song he used to croon to the kids at the orphanage, and that he now sang to Ciri when she couldn’t sleep. It was a sad but beautiful song about a little boy lost in the woods who makes friends with the animals and who finds a horse who followed him everywhere (who was the inspiration behind Ciri naming her horse Roach). He made the mistake of singing in front of Jaskier once and now he asked to hear Geralt’s gruff, off-key singing voice all the time. 

He got through the second verse when he finally heard Jaskier’s soft snore, and soon fell asleep himself, hand cradled around his phone, thumb stroking the sheets underneath it as though he was stroking his boyfriend’s cheek. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man THE NEXT CHAPTER IS GONNA BE SOOOOO INTENSE!!!! Lots of courtroom and family drama (and I have most of it done, so it shouldn’t be too long).  
> Love y’all!! Stay safe and healthy out there!! 🥰🥰


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt, Jaskier, and Ciri face the custody court date in this continued flashback.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of courtroom drama in this one. Not *truly* realistic, in that I combined custody court with criminal court because my years of Law & Order obsessive watching came out while writing this, so pardon that if you’re of the legal mind. I just had way too much fun with this one.  
> Also lots of Ciri angst…my heart broke writing it, but I haven’t skimped on the emotion before so I’m not going to now 😬😬😬🤣🤣🤣😰😰😰

_Three Years Ago_

The night before their court date, Ciri woke up screaming. 

Not crying, or sobbing—shrieking like she’d been stabbed. 

Jaskier was the first one to make it down the hallway, Geralt followed close behind him after cursing the slippers that tripped him when he fell out of bed. 

She was inconsolable.

No matter what they said, she kept her hands boxed over her ears, eyes shut tight as she rocked back and forth over her knees.

Geralt, stooped at the foot of her bed, was afraid to touch her, and Jaskier just kept his hand on the comforter beside her, waiting for her to open her eyes. 

“Has this happened before?” Jaskier whispered. 

Geralt’s throat prickled with tears as he watched her, whimpering and sobbing. 

“Not for a long time,” he replied. “And not this bad.”

Ciri took a full breath, and let out a long whimper, dissolving into fresh tears. 

“What did Yen tell her yesterday?” Jaskier asked, venom in his voice. 

“Nothing she didn’t already know,” Geralt replied, taking the risk of sitting on the end of her bed. “This isn’t Yen’s fault—it’s Calanthe’s.”

The musician bit his lip and shook his head.

“I wanna see Mommy,” Ciri said suddenly, voice shaking and muffled through the clenched hands in her comforter.

Geralt jumped up and pulled open the drawer of her nightstand, taking the photo inside and reaching over Jaskier’s shoulder to hand it to her. 

She opened her eyes, sniffled, and held the photo to her wet cheek. 

“Oh Mommy…I’m so sorry.”

Geralt pressed his wet eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, his hand white-knuckled on her headboard, two seconds away from breaking down himself. 

Quiet humming suddenly filled the room, and he opened his eyes to Jaskier’s lips pressed together and soft sounds coming from behind them, his hand rubbing soothing circles between Ciri’s shoulders. He reached behind him and took Geralt’s other hand, tugging it to rest on his shoulder. Even with how full and rhythmic the humming sounded, Geralt could feel Jaskier’s chest shaking. 

One song melded into two, and three, until Ciri fully relaxed and sat up, wiping her hand over her eyes, looking remarkably calmer, though still upset. 

“Daddy?”

Geralt raised his head from where he’d been watching Jaskier’s thumb rub circles in his palm, and smiled as best he could. 

“Yes, baby.”

She raised her arms, hands stretched out toward him, and he picked her up, cuddling her into his shoulder, heart aching at how she nestled into his hair like a cub in her father’s mane.

“I don’t want to go today,” she whimpered. 

Jaskier motioned for him to sit on the bed, the musician wrapping both his arms around them. 

“I know, Ciri,” Geralt said. “But this is what we’ve been talking about, hmm? If we don’t go…”

He stopped, throat constricted. 

He couldn’t bear to say it out loud. 

He hadn’t told anybody—not even Jaskier—but he’d asked Ciri, when they were eating breakfast the morning after they’d come home. Jaskier was still asleep, and Geralt knew he wouldn’t have another chance to ask her before the court date. He took her little hand, chuckling as she slurped her bite of cereal and grinned at him, Fruity Pebbles stuck to her teeth. He asked her if she still wanted to stay with him, to be his daughter. She threw herself across the table, knocking over the milk pitcher, both bowls of cereal, and the canister all over the floor, and burst into tears, whimpering yes over and over again. 

“I’m scared, Daddy,” Ciri wept into his neck, sniffling and coughing and trying to snuggle closer than she already was. 

Jaskier stood and cupped Geralt’s cheek in his hand. From the look on his face, Jaskier was as clueless as Geralt was to figure out what to say. Geralt knew she had to come with them, but the last thing he wanted to do was force her.

“What do you think Mommy would want me to do?” Ciri murmured. 

Geralt shut his eyes, inhaling and exhaling a deep, cleansing breath. 

There were things Geralt had recently learned about Pavetta that made him able to answer without bias. 

“I think she would want you to go,” he replied. “I don’t think she wants us to be apart, either.”

Ciri nodded, agreeing, and cuddled closer. 

“Can you sleep with me, Daddy?”

Jaskier had to clap his hand over his mouth to cover his whimper, dashing his hand across his wet eyes, and Geralt pressed his hand. 

“Of course, baby,” he said, crawling into Ciri’s impossibly small bed, his legs hanging off the end and Jaskier suppressed an endearing chuckle. 

Ciri either didn’t notice or didn’t mind, because she continued carefully arranging the blankets around them and crawled across his chest and back to fetch Roach and her teddy bear, one held under each arm as she tucked herself under Geralt’s chin. 

“You know, baby, if we went back to my room, Jaskier could sleep with us, too,” Geralt murmured, catching Jaskier’s hand as he tried to leave the room.

Ciri sat up, knees digging into Geralt’s side, and watched Jaskier closely. 

“It’s alright, Ciri,” Jaskier tried to reassure, sounding as burnt out as Geralt did. “I can sleep on the couch in the living room, that way I can hear if you need anything. I don’t want to be a bother.”

Ciri shook her head no and rolled out of bed, running over to bounce on the balls of her feet and raise her arms. 

Jaskier’s mouth dropped, and he looked at Geralt like he was about to start sobbing—Ciri hadn’t asked Jaskier to hold her since they’d come home from their trip nearly three weeks ago.

He scooped her up, tears streaming down his cheeks as he cuddled her close.

“I love you, Jaskier,” she whispered, kissing his cheek and resting her head on his shoulder. 

“I love you, too, Ciri,” Jaskier replied, smiling with the most unperturbed joy Geralt had ever seen. 

He stood, carrying Roach and her teddy bear, and smiled at his daughter when she turned to check on him. 

“Let’s try and get some sleep, hmm?” he asked, and Jaskier and Ciri both nodded as they followed Geralt down the hallway to the master bedroom.

Geralt didn’t sleep a wink the rest of the night, but he didn’t mind. Jaskier was cuddled beside him, sock-feet wrapped around his, lightly snoring mouth open and drool dripping onto his pillow, Ciri in-between them, curled into a ball and sleeping on Geralt’s now-numb arm. 

He had to face the reality that they may not win tomorrow. This may not go the way so many of them were hoping. And if this was the last night he spent with Ciri, then he wouldn’t change a single detail.  
When he started crying just before dawn, he couldn’t stop—fortunately Jaskier woke up before Ciri did. He held Geralt’s cheek, stroking the tears from under his eyes, and helped scoot Ciri off of his arm so Geralt could stand. 

“I love you,” Jaskier murmured, tugging him into a kiss. “No matter what happens today.”

Geralt nodded, still struggling to control his voice, as he replied, “No matter what happens.”

Ciri scrunched her closed eyes and reached her arm out for Geralt, whimpering when she found the space empty. She opened her eyes in panic and crawled across the bed, launching herself into Geralt’s arms. 

“Time to get ready,” Jaskier said reluctantly, and Ciri nodded into Geralt’s chest. 

Geralt didn’t move, though. Just held her tighter. 

When Jaskier opened his mouth, Geralt interrupted, “Please—just a couple more minutes.”

He paused and nodded through a sad smile.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The first on the stand, and Yennefer’s first witness, was Nenneke.

Geralt was seated on the left side of the courthouse, and Calanthe and her lawyer, Phillippa, were across the aisle to the right. 

After enduring the deathlike stare from Calanthe in the hallway outside, Geralt and Yennefer entered the courtroom and went over the preliminary introductions with Phillippa and Judge Istredd, a far younger judge than Geralt had ever met. Their original judge was in the hospital, and Istredd had been slotted to replace him. Yen mumbled in Geralt’s ear that this was a VERY good change in their favor, but considering he’d spent the past twenty minutes in the courthouse bathroom throwing up what little breakfast he ate, her reassurance did nothing to allay his fears. 

There were only two things giving him any sort of comfort—Ciri being kept out of the courtroom and in a small daycare area with Iola and her daughter, watching cartoons and playing with the stuffed animals and books, and Jaskier sitting in the chair right behind him, his support and love a warm blanket wrapped around Geralt’s shoulders. 

Yennefer was going over the events of the night Geralt took Ciri from Cahir, and although he trusted her strategy considering the years of her legal experience, he still felt so dizzy, all he wanted to do was hang his head between his knees.

“What was discovered after Cahir had been arrested following Mr. Rivia’s anonymous 9-1-1 call?” Yennefer asked.

Nenneke, in her formal police uniform and her silver hair pulled back into a bun at the base of her neck, leaned forward to speak into the microphone,  
“It had been discovered that a corrupt CPS agent, Fringilla, had been taking a cut from the foster children’s support checks…and that Cahir and Fringilla had been exchanging money from the fosters system for sexual favors, and vice versa.”

The few people allowed in the courtroom collectively shuddered. Phillippa, scribbling furiously into her notepad, just tutted sarcastically. Calanthe continued trying to burn a hole through Nenneke’s forehead, when she wasn’t glaring daggers at Geralt.

Neither Yennefer nor Nenneke were intimidated by Calanthe, and continued their exchange as though it were an every day conversation. 

“How many children were hospitalized during the year that Fringilla and Cahir were involved in this scheme?” Yennefer said.

This was the first question, in nearly half an hour of testimony, that Nenneke looked anything but disaffected at her response. Her lips tightened and her shoulders tensed. 

“…30, if you count the infants.”

“And how many died?” Yennefer asked, blunt and uncompromising.

Nenneke lowered her eyes. “22.” 

A stunned hush swept the room and Calanthe hissed under her breath, saying something to Phillippa, who nodded aggressively and patted her shoulder, in what Geralt could only guess was an attempt to keep Calanthe from interrupting the proceedings. 

Nenneke cleared her throat, looking from Judge Istredd to Geralt. “The other eight only made it because Geralt found them that night. He’s the reason they’re alive today. And that includes Ciri—she hadn’t been fed since Fringilla dropped her off. And considering how underfed she’d been, for days…and longer…she wouldn’t have lived the week if Geralt hadn’t done what he did.” 

Phillippa bolted from her chair, its legs screeching as they slid across the polished wood floor. 

“Objection! Deputy Ellander is not a medical expert—she doesn’t know for certain what would have happened to those children.”

“As compared to what, the fact that 22 others had died in the same house in a year?” Judge Istredd snapped. “Overruled. The testimony remains on the record.”

Yennefer nodded, returning her attention to Nenneke. 

“Deputy Ellander, how long have you known Geralt?”

“Twenty-three years,” she replied, smiling at him. 

He found himself able to smile back, and that helped the tight knots in his stomach relax. 

“Have you ever known his instincts to fail?” Yennefer continued.

“No.”

“Has he ever hurt anyone, outside of the necessity of bail bondsman work?”

Nenneke shook her head vehemently. “Never.” She met his eye. “He’s the kindest, tenderest man I know—even before he met Ciri.”

“No further questions,” Yennefer nodded, winking at Geralt as she sat back down beside him.

He exhaled a shaky breath. They’d only just begun, and he felt wrung out to his bones.

“Whenever you’re ready, counselor,” Judge Istredd muttered after five minutes had passed, and Phillippa hadn’t moved or even looked up from the notepad she was still obsessively writing on. 

She put the cap on her pen, and stood up suddenly, tugging on the bottom of her buttoned suit jacket.  
She paced back and forth in front of Nenneke, the deputy rolling her eyes when her back was turned. Geralt had to stifle a chuckle. If this was an attempt to intimidate Nenneke, Phillippa would have to do much more than that. 

The attorney cleared her throat, and finally asked her first question.

“You seem fond of Geralt, hmm?”

“He was my trainee on Patrol before he left the Force, and we’ve remained close friends ever since. So, yes.” 

“And why is that? Why did he leave the Force?” 

Nenneke smirked. “Not all of us are meant to be cops.”

“That doesn’t answer my question, Deputy.”

She glanced at Geralt, then back to Phillippa. 

“He wanted more satisfaction of justice than the Force could give him. And he’s helped a lot of people through his bounty hunting—and put a lot of bad people away who didn’t want his help. I envy him sometimes for the kind of closure he’s gotten through his work.”

Geralt smiled sadly, and she winked. 

“You were the deputy who initially signed the release forms for Ciri’s temporary stay with Mr. Rivia, is that correct?” Phillippa continued, seemingly unperturbed by Nenneke’s confident responses.

Nenneke nodded. “Yes. And after the three days had passed, Geralt got in touch with CPS and the courts to apply to be her official foster parent, which was approved. Everything was legal and by the book.”

“After he broke into Cahir’s trailer, threatened him, bribed him, and kidnapped her, is that correct?”

Yen shouted from her seat. “Objection! The attorney is testifying.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “You can go into more details about those circumstances when Mr. Rivia testifies, is that understood, Ms. Eilhart?”

Phillippa nodded and Geralt’s heart sank. He knew Yen planned to put him on the stand—there was no way around it—but he still felt sick about it. 

“Do you advocate vigilantism, Deputy?” the attorney continued.

Nenneke narrowed her eyes at Phillippa before shooing off Yennefer’s objection.

“No, I’ll answer that, if I’m allowed.” 

The judge nodded, and Nenneke cleared her throat. 

“No, Ms. Eilhart. I do not advocate vigilantism. But neither do I advocate taking a child from its loving home at the whims of a spoiled, power-hungry egomaniac with more money and influence than she knows what to do with.”

Geralt chuckled behind his hand at the shocked look of insult on Calanthe’s face, and the stuttering speechlessness on Phillippa’s face.

“…No further questions,” the lawyer muttered before returning to her seat.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geralt hardly fit in the chair on the witness stand. 

But the weight of being under the eyes of everyone in the courtroom quickly overcame the seat’s discomfort, and he tried to focus on the sound of Yennefer’s heels clicking across the floor, back and forth in front of him. 

“Tell us about yourself, Geralt,” Yennefer said, hands held in front of her, her air one of unreal confidence and charisma—one of the things that made him fall in love with her. 

She’d more than amply prepared him for his part on the stand—drilling him through her questions, over and over again, not pulling any punches. He was more than willing to do it, though some of it was humiliating. But if it meant staying with Ciri, he’d do anything. 

“I was three when my mother abandoned me at a Conoco gas station,” Geralt recited, ignoring the familiar ache in his chest at the words. “I lived on the street for six months, stealing whatever food I could find until the cops found me sleeping in a dumpster and took me to the nearest orphanage. I was there until I was 18.”

“You have a Juvenile record?” Yennefer asked. 

“Yes.” 

“Tell us about it.”

He cleared his throat and said, “The orphanage I was in has since been shut down for child abuse and negligence—many of the orphans got sick and died. It was run by drug cartels who used the kids as a transport for their product.” 

Her eyes softened, and her stance grew gentler. 

“Why did you go to Juvie so many times?” Yennefer continued.

“I stole a lot for the kids in the orphanage. Clothing, food, shoes, blankets. The biggest thing I got caught with was a Thanksgiving turkey.”

The crowd chuckled at that, and Yen smiled, a comforting warmth filling his chest. He glanced behind her to Jaskier, and saw tears in his eyes. 

“You were arrested a final time when you were 18, correct?” 

Geralt nodded. “I stole insulin from a pharmacy. One of the kids was going into diabetic shock—the dealers wouldn’t take him to the hospital.”

Yennefer let those words hang in the air a moment, inhaled slowly, and said, “That was when you were given the choice of military service instead of jail time, correct?”

“Yes...I entered the Marine Corps the following month, and served for four years.”

“And when you were honorably discharged, you became a cop for two years, and then a bail-bondsman?”

“That’s correct.”

Yennefer paused, voice much quieter as she asked, “What happened to the kid? The one you stole the insulin for.” 

This wasn’t a planned question, but it wasn’t as though he needed to double-check his answer. 

Geralt swallowed and said, “He died the next day—while I was in lockup waiting for my arraignment. The drug cartels jumped bail, and were never caught.”

Yennefer lowered her eyes and nodded. 

“Your witness,” she said to Phillippa as she took her seat.

Calanthe’s attorney stood after making meaningful glances with her client and stared at Geralt for a minute before approaching him. 

“Have you ever paid for escorts?” 

Geralt’s brow quirked. So this was the tac she was taking.

“Yes.”

“So, prostitutes?”

Geralt fought the temptation to roll his eyes at the unnecessary repetition. 

“Yes.”

There was no point in being embarrassed, or acting so. He knew he’d done right by Ciri since he’d adopted her, and now with Jaskier, the temptation to ever look anywhere else was long gone.

“When was the last time you solicited an escort?” 

“Eleven and a half years ago.” 

“You expect the court to believe that you haven’t been with anyone in eleven years?”

Geralt repressed a smile, his cheeks flushing; he could feel Jaskier’s hidden grin from across the courtroom. “I didn’t say that...but no, I haven’t paid for an escort since the year before I met Ciri.”

“Fascinating. And who is Renfri Appleton?” 

Yennefer raised her head from her notepad slowly, replacing the cap on her pen. 

Geralt met her eye, and she nodded. 

“A bail jumper that I arrested almost twenty years ago,” he replied, managing to keep his voice even. 

Phillippa nodded in feigned agreement and said, “Tell us what happened on July 14th, 2001.”

Geralt made the mistake of glancing at Calanthe in front of him. She was smiling a cruel, wicked smile.

“Renfri handcuffed me to the radiator while I slept and…” He paused, focusing on his breathing as he finished, “and shot herself in the head with my gun.”

Jaskier looked one word away from taking a chair to the back of Phillippa’s head. Geralt told him about Renfri months earlier, even before he knew they’d be in court…but it was a special kind of humiliation to go over the details again in front of his ex-girlfriend, and his boyfriend. 

“Where were you?” 

“In a motel.”

“Sleeping in the same bed with her, correct?”

His nostrils flared. “Yes.”

“Had you engaged in sexual intercourse?”

“Yes.” 

“Do you regret it?”

“Depends on the day.”

Yen facepalmed and Jaskier winced. 

“Were you going to help her avoid her court date?” Phillippa drawled, her voice sounding more like a viper’s hiss with every syllable. 

Geralt focused his rage on the pinprick of pain from his fingernails breaking the skin on his palms. 

“No,” he bit. “But I wasn’t going to turn her in, either.”

“For the record, you’re saying you wouldn’t turn her in?”

“No,” Geralt repeated. “She needed rehab, and therapy—not jail.”

“She killed a man.”

“Who had sexually abused her since she was 4. And then attempted to sell her into human trafficking—all of which is public record, Counselor” He paused. “I had a contact in a rehab center. I was trying to convince Renfri to let me take her there...I figured the judge would be easier on her if she took that first step.”

Phillippa’s glare was mocking, and scathing.

“Interesting. Did you love her?”

Yen’s chair flew across the floor as she burst from her seat. “Objection, relevance!”

“Overruled,” Judge Istredd replied, turning to Geralt and ignoring Yen’s barely-murmured curses. “The witness will answer.”

Geralt looked from the judge, to Yen, to Jaskier, the musician’s brows furrowed in concern but his loving smile giving him inexplicable comfort. 

“Yes,” he replied. “There hasn’t been a day that I haven’t thought about her, and what I would differently if I had the chance.”

“Why did she kill herself?” Phillippa asked. 

“I don’t know, I’m not able to ask her,” Geralt hissed before Yen was able to finish shouting her objection. 

“Ms. Eilhart,” Judge Istredd admonished. “You know better than that.” 

“Sorry, Your Honor,” she said, examining Geralt like a hyena eyeing wounded prey. 

Yennefer stood and muttered, “Your Honor, if this is Ms. Eilhart’s only tactic, may we skip ahead to my next witness? Unless she’d like a peek at my little black book, too.” 

“Move along, Counselor,” Judge Istredd said to Phillippa. “You’ve more than made your point.”

The attorney nodded, prancing back and forth across the room. 

“Would you do anything differently about Ciri?”

Geralt’s eyes hardened and his chest tensed. “No.”

Phillippa’s brows raised in amusement. “Really? Bribery, breaking and entering, kidnapping…you wouldn’t do anything differently? Or legally, I should say.”

Yen was halfway through shouting out an objection, when Geralt said to Judge Istredd, “Please, Your Honor, if I could answer that.”

The judge nodded, surprised.

“I...couldn’t let Ciri become another number.” He shut his eyes. “I’ve been a bounty hunter for twenty-one years. I have seen…everything. More babies like Ciri die every day than you care to think about.”

“But why did you keep her?” Phillippa continued, hands clenched into fists in the pocket of her suit jacket. “Even if your being her foster was responsible, or legal, or justified, you certainly didn’t have to keep her, much less start the adoption process. Why go to the trouble at all?”

Geralt’s own hands clenched in his lap.

“Because I loved her the moment I saw her.” He spoke to Jaskier, focusing all his attention on the way his brow crinkled. “I wouldn’t trade a single moment with her for anything in the world.”

He glared at Calanthe. “I knew that I had a great chance of being arrested that night, and maybe I should have been. But I saved her life, and the lives of those kids, and that’s worth it to me. I don’t regret what I did, even if she’s taken from me now. She’s my daughter, biology be damned. And I’ll fight for her until I can’t.”

The depth of the silence in the courtroom after his words sent a shiver down Geralt’s spine and he met Yennefer’s eye, her smile giving him all the reassurance he needed that he’d said the right thing. 

“Redirect Your Honor,” Yennefer said eventually. 

After Judge Istredd nodded, Yen stood and approached Geralt, one hand still holding her pen, the other resting on her hip. 

“Do you regret what happened with Renfri?” 

“Every day. I let my pity and lust cloud my judgment. She needed more help than I could give her...and I didn’t realize it in time.”

“You were the one to call the police that morning, essentially turning yourself in?”

“Yes. My bounty hunter license was revoked for the next year, and I worked as a security guard on a contractural basis until I could reapply.”

Yennefer stopped pacing, her hand resting on the podium in front of him. 

“What would you tell your younger self now, if you could talk to him?”

Geralt exhaled, shutting his eyes. 

“That you can’t help everyone...and that there are other people that will need you more…so don’t give up.”

Yennefer squeezed his shoulder, and returned to her seat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger, but this chapter was getting WAY too long, and the next chapter’s continuity makes a lot more sense ending this one here. It won’t be a long wait for the next one, though! I have most of it written already. Also I PROMISE more smut is coming *pardon the pun bahaha* 🤣🤣🤣👀👀👀


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The custody court session continues, a dark past comes to life, and some mistakes made are paid for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooohhhh man I got SO EMOTIONAL writing this. But I promise, for all the angst and drama, there’s a fluffy ending. 
> 
> Enjoy!! 😘😘😘

_Three Years Ago_

Ciri was next to testify, and before she sat on the stand, she rushed over to give Jaskier and Geralt a hug as she walked up the middle aisle with Yennefer. Phillippa stood to complain but even Judge Istredd was smiling behind his hand and shooed off the attorney’s objection to the unexpected affection. 

Yennefer smiled, warm and bright, and leaned over the witness stand, effectively blocking Ciri from the stares of the courthouse, and Geralt was grateful for that.

“Hi, Ciri,” Yennefer started. 

“Hi,” Ciri murmured, her feet swinging back and forth under her chair. 

“Are you nervous?” Yen asked gently. 

Ciri nodded. 

“Your Honor, may I?” 

Judge Istredd nodded with an understanding smile. “Go ahead.”

“Ciri, you want to tell me your favorite color?”

Ciri raised her shy eyes and swallowed before she said, “Green! And purple. And blue. And yellow. And pink.”

Most of the courthouse was chuckling, and Jaskier leaned forward and squeezed Geralt’s shoulder. 

“And what’s your favorite food?” Yennefer continued, winking at Geralt.

Ciri’s nerves were all but gone now, her eyes bright with the excitement of the questions. “I love cereal and hot dogs and cupcakes and celery sticks and bagels and carrots!” 

“You like celery?” Yennefer asked, legitimately surprised. 

“Uh huh!” Ciri exclaimed. “Daddy puts cream cheese on the pieces and it always tastes really good.”

The crowd laughed again, and Yennefer turned to face the court and turned back to Ciri. 

“How old are you, Ciri?” 

“I’m seven years old!” she exclaimed, holding up all five fingers on one hand and two on the other to show everyone. 

Geralt smiled, feeling more at ease at her enthusiastic demeanor, despite how terrible her nightmares were last night. 

“Now I’m going to ask you some questions about your dad, okay?” 

Ciri nodded. “Okay!”

“Do you have fun with your dad?”

Ciri nearly bounced out of the chair. “Oh yes! We just went to the zoo and to the library and to the diner where I got French toast that’s almost as tall as me!”

Snickers and chuckles spread through the courthouse, and Geralt smiled behind his hand, raising his head and chuckling when Ciri saw him looking at her and waved. He opened his right hand in a wave, and clenched his left hand in his lap. 

Calanthe, glaring at him over Phillippa’s shoulder, hissed something in her attorney’s ear, and turned to glower at the table. 

Geralt couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t make eye contact with the granddaughter she was fighting for.

Yennefer’s voice grew somber.

“Ciri, has your daddy ever hurt you?”

Ciri’s smile disappeared and she shook her head so rapidly the chair shook under her. 

“No, never! Daddy would never hurt me. He loves me and I love him and he’s my family. I love him very much and I’m glad he saved me.” 

“Your dad told you you’re adopted?”

Ciri nodded again. 

“When did he tell you that?”

“I was three when I asked him who my mommy was, and he said he didn’t actually know my mom, or my dad. Then he told me that he met me at a police station, and that he signed the phosphur—“

“Foster,” Yennefer corrected with a smile. 

“—Foster papers and he got to take me home. And that he became my daddy and that he loves me.” Her smile beamed like a beacon from her seat. 

“But he did tell you about your mom before today, right?” Yen asked. 

Ciri’s face became serious, and sad, and she nodded, head lowered. 

“He told me that Mommy had some problems and that my dad didn’t do good things for her.” She raised her head again, looking at Geralt and trying to smile. “He got a picture of her and I keep it in my bedroom so that when I’m sad, I can hold Mommy close and tell her how much I love her.”

“Did your daddy tell you why he got you that picture?”

Ciri nodded enthusiastically. “He said that he wanted me to know where I came from—that he doesn’t remember his mommy and daddy, too, and that it would be okay. Because we had each other, and Jaskier.”

Yennefer lowered her head, and Geralt glanced at Jaskier over his shoulder. Jaskier’s eyes glistened—much of the day, he’d been in and out of tears, though Geralt knew these were ones of happiness. The musician smiled and sighed, pressing his hand over his heart and leaning back in his seat. 

Yennefer looked at Geralt, a twinge of sadness in her eyes, before turning back to the stand.

“Ciri, what’s one of your favorite memories you have with your dad?”

Ciri looked at Geralt, uncharacteristic seriousness on her face, and looked back at Yennefer. 

“Last summer I fell off the swingset and cut my knee. I was bleeding all over my new shoes and socks and I started crying and didn’t want to move. But Daddy sat with me in the dirt, cleaned off my cut and hugged me and said that I mattered more than any shoes or socks and that he was glad it was just a little cut. I still have the scar, too, see?” She hitched up her leg to show the knee under her dress and the entire courtroom laughed. 

Geralt remembered that day, vividly—he was sitting on a bench at the edge of the park, a few yards away from her, reading—and heard her hit the ground so hard she couldn’t breathe. He’d never run so fast in his life, and picked her up and held her close before he’d even noticed her bloody knee. He was just more relieved than he ever remembered being that she was okay, that she was still breathing. She was so upset over her Spider-Man shoes and Disney Princess socks, but he promised her that he would get new ones for her, and that all that mattered was that she was okay. 

It made his chest ache in the best way that she’d taken that message to heart. 

Yennefer smiled and nodded. 

“When you get sick, what does your daddy do?”

Ciri sat up, crossing her legs under her. “He stays home from work and cuddles with me. No matter how long it takes. I remember once I had the flu and he was always there with me, even when it got really gross. He plays dolls with me and turns on movies and holds me and my teddy bears until I feel better.”

Yennefer winked at Ciri and returned to her seat, patting Geralt’s hand as she sat down. 

Geralt’s eyes were now glued on Phillippa, listening to Calanthe whispering in her ear—his blood pressure already rising at what he could guess Ciri’s questions would be...but the preemptive anger was moot. 

She stood and said, “We have no questions for her.”

Yennefer was more shocked than Geralt was, and she shrugged, going to stand, but Judge Istredd held up his hand for her to wait. 

“Ciri,” Judge Istredd started. “Is there anything else you want to tell me before I let Yennefer take you back to the toy room?” 

Ciri climbed up onto her knees to face him and said, “Don’t take me away from my daddy—I don’t want to go home with that lady—“ She pointed at Calanthe. 

“She’s your grandmother, though—do you want to get to know her at least?” Judge Istredd asked gently. 

Ciri shook her head defiantly. “I tried to talk to her when we came inside and she glared at me. She scares me—I don’t want to go home with someone that scares me. I want to go home with Jaskier and my daddy!”

She bolted from the chair and threw herself into Geralt’s arms and started sobbing. Geralt cuddled her close and shushed her gently, telling her everything was going to be okay and that they couldn’t go home yet, because he still had some things to take care of. She nodded, but still wouldn’t let go, and Jaskier gently unclamped her hands from around Geralt’s shoulders and when Ciri saw who was trying to hold her, she let Jaskier pick her up. 

“I’ll go sit with her,” Jaskier murmured over Ciri’s shoulder. “You’ll be alright?”

“He’ll be fine,” Yen muttered. “Just go.”

Geralt winced in apology and Jaskier squeezed his hand, blowing him a kiss before carrying Ciri out of the courtroom.

Even after all of that, Calanthe still wouldn’t look at her, and for the moment, didn’t want to look at anyone, including her lawyer, who was glaring at her. 

“What was that about?” Geralt whispered. 

“Calanthe knows she’s losing…and guilt is a powerful thing.” Yen smirked. “Just wait until my cross-examination—she’ll never bother you again when I’m done with her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

Calanthe was the last on the stand. 

Phillippa’s questions to her only painted one picture for Geralt: her lawyer was as enchanted by Calanthe’s ego as her client was. By the end of the twenty minutes of pitiful excuses for life questions, all Geralt knew for sure was that Calanthe had donated more money to charities than he’d ever make in a lifetime…and she hadn’t mentioned her late daughter, or son-in-law, once. And only spoke about Ciri in a brief speech about discovering her granddaughter’s existence accidentally, and how she had to get her beloved grandchild away from such an aggressive beast of a bail bondsman. 

Vesemir would be proud—Geralt had a much better hold on his anger now than he did when he was younger. 

Phillippa’s charade finally ended, and Yennefer stood, pulling a stack of paperwork to the edge of the table before buttoning her suit jacket and pacing in front of Calanthe. 

When Geralt thought Calanthe was about to reach out and choke Yennefer purely out of impatience, she stopped, faced her, and said, 

“You claim you didn’t know that your daughter had continued with the pregnancy and given birth, correct?”

Calanthe cocked her head and sneered. “Of course I didn’t. Why else would I have left her to fall into this _beast’s_ hands?”

Yennefer nodded, seemingly placated, and crossed back and forth again before asking, “Didn’t your daughter call you the night she gave birth to Ciri?”

Apparently it was possible for the woman’s look to sour further. 

“I don’t recall,” Calanthe hissed. 

“Is that so?” Yennefer asked. She picked up the packet of paper off the table beside Geralt and turned to the judge. “Defense Exhibit C.” 

“Noted,” Judge Istredd replied.

Yennefer flipped through the packet to a page bookmarked with an orange sticky note and set it on the podium in front of the witness stand.

“Will you please read the highlighted portion?”

Calanthe’s glare could have ignited the building. 

She lifted the pages, cleared her throat, and focused her eyes and read, “ ‘Mom—it’s me. Please text me back. I’m having contractions and Duny isn’t answering his phone.’“ Calanthe paused, fury dissolving into pain. “ ‘I’m really scared and I don’t want to have the baby in the trailer.’”

Yennefer’s own fury was gaining foothold, the attorney looking as immovable as a black-silken pillar in front of her. 

“Keep reading.” 

Calanthe’s voice cracked as she read, “ ‘Mom my water just broke. Please I need your help.’ “

Yennefer tapped her fingernail on the page. “According to your phone records, these texts were sent while she tried to call you thirteen times in an hour.” 

“You have no proof I ignored those calls.” 

Yennefer’s brows raised, steely gaze hardening. Geralt was all too familiar with that face…a lioness on the prowl. Yennefer had Calanthe cornered, and they both knew it. 

“Oh, I do, actually. You answered the third call at 12:42 am, and spoke to her for nearly two minutes before you hung up. Then she called and texted every few minutes after that. And you still ignored her.” 

Calanthe, in all her finery—her Japanese silk pantsuit, professionally plaited curls, and gaudy jewelry on her fingers and neck, had the audacity to scour her sight across the courtroom and to look into Geralt’s eyes for solace. 

He turned his head. 

“Do you know the circumstances of the birth of your granddaughter?” Yennefer continued, tone sharp. 

“No,” Calanthe replied through clenched teeth.

“Well let me inform you. Your daughter drove herself to the ER, in active labor, and didn’t make it into the building—she gave birth in the alley behind the hospital.” 

“Objection!” Phillippa shouted, bursting from her chair. “The attorney is testifying!” 

“Withdrawn,” Yennefer replied, mouth curling in a triumphant smirk. 

She circled back around the courtroom, stiletto heels clicking in the eerie silence. 

She stopped, pointing to the still-opened packet of paper in front of Calanthe. 

“Keep reading,” she commanded. 

Calanthe skimmed the page and shook her head. “No…I won’t read any more…”

Yennefer motioned to Judge Istredd.

“Your Honor—“

He turned to the stand. “Read the passage, Mrs. Cintra.” 

Calanthe’s searing gaze passed from the judge, to Yennefer, to the pages, and her eyes filled with tears.

“ ‘I hate you. I never want to see or hear from you again. I hope you choke on your diamond necklace and fall down the stairs into your crystal chandelier.’ “ Calanthe lowered the pages as she finished, “ ‘As long as I’m alive, you will never know your granddaughter.’ “

“That was sent an hour after Ciri was born, when Pavetta was finally in a bed in the ER.” Yennefer pointed to the pages, indicating for her to continue. “And what was your response?”

She swallowed, a tear dripping from her eyelashes as she read, “ ‘Don’t wake me up again.’ “

A shocked silence filled the room, and Geralt leaned into his hand, shutting his burning eyes. His palms stung from where his nails broke the skin, just starting to scab over from earlier that morning.

“No further questions,” Yennefer finished, the dagger points of her eyes shining in triumph as she sat back down.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They’d stopped for a brief recess, and Geralt was drinking the shitty coffee out of the vending machine in the hallway, when Calanthe came up behind him, her eyes desperate and panicked in the reflection of the glass. 

“What can I give you to end this?” 

He turned, sipping nonchalantly on the coffee that made his insides burn. 

“I don’t care about money, or power. If you’d actually read that article you tracked me in, you’d know that.”

When she opened her mouth to object again, Geralt reiterated, “Nothing, Calanthe. Nothing you can give me could ever stop me from fighting for her. I will mortgage my house into the ground, eat rice and beans for the rest of my life, and keep meeting you in court, again and again, until this stops.”

The woman’s shoulders dropped, and tears dripped from her mascara-clumped lashes. 

“She hates me,” she whimpered. 

“No—she’s scared of you, and frankly, I can’t blame her.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What have you told her?” 

Geralt shrugged, tossing his coffee cup into the trash behind her. 

“The truth,” he said. “Enough of it to know why her parents were taken from her.”

“…This really isn’t going to end is it?” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, meeting Yennefer’s eye across the hallway. She lifted her head, and he nodded her into the courthouse. 

“I didn’t think you’d fight so hard,” Calanthe muttered. “Phillippa is worthless, but with your reputation…or at least what I thought it was…I figured you’d cave.”

Calanthe’s hand was gripping her hair, and Geralt suddenly realized it was a wig she was wearing…and didn’t that explain it all. 

“You’re dying, aren’t you?”

Her eyes widened and she sneered at him. 

“How the fuck—?”

“Your selfishness motivates everything, doesn’t it?” he continued, strengthened by the confirmation she’d given him. “You’re trying to take her back to ease your guilt before you die.”

Before she could answer, he muttered, “Is this best for her? Or for you? Is this how you want to spend the last few months of your life? She deserves better than that, and you know it.”

Calanthe crumbled, leaning back against the vending machine and pressing her hand to eyes. 

“Do what’s best for _her_ , not what soothes your conscience,” Geralt said. “You can’t fix what you did to your daughter…but you can let your granddaughter have a good life—and I swear on my own, she will.” 

She didn’t say anything for a long time—five, ten minutes passed, and Geralt realized that Yennefer hadn’t come and gotten them, so she must have told the judge they were talking. Hopefully it wouldn’t be a wasted conversation.

“Will she take my name?” she asked suddenly, startling Geralt from listening to the low hum of the courthouse heater in the vents below them.

“That’s not up to me…she’s asked for my name since she could talk. If she wants to keep your family name, I won’t stop her. But I won’t pressure her, either.”

Calanthe’s glance softened suddenly, and she looked him up and down as though they’d just met. 

“You really love her,” she murmured, startled. 

“More than I can tell you.”

Calanthe nodded, weakly, eyes suddenly glazed with exhaustion and grief. 

“What did she look like?” she asked, voice a tattered whisper. “Ciri, when she was a baby…Do you have a picture of her?”

God help him, Geralt actually felt a measure of pity for this woman, and cleared his throat awkwardly as he dug out his wallet, unfolding the picture inserts over his palm to show her. Though a couple of the new ones were of he and Jaskier, all the others were of Ciri—ranging from the first week he’d adopted her, to just a few months ago. 

The first one was his favorite—it was taken the night Geralt brought Ciri home from the hospital after her withdrawal treatment, when Nenneke surprised him with a fridge full of food donated from the office and a house cleaned from top to bottom. The picture wasn’t planned—Geralt had just eaten his first full meal in a week, and Ciri was taking her bottle again like normal, and he was so overwhelmed with gratitude at seeing her eat again, he felt tears gathering in his eyes and didn’t care to wipe them off. He was sitting in his recliner and had Ciri cuddled in his arm, and Nenneke snapped the picture from above him. Until she’d sent it to him in an email, he didn’t know she’d even taken it—and now he had several copies of it—on his desk at the bondsman office, one he packed when he went on the road, one in his wallet, one the background picture on his phone. 

Calanthe flipped through the pictures, tears smearing her mascara on her cheeks, pausing especially long on the first photo, as he figured she would.

He slipped it out of the insert and handed it to her. 

“Here. I have other copies.”

Her mouth dropped and she pressed the worn photo between her palms and exhaled a shaking breath. 

She wiped her fingers under her eyes and cleared her throat. 

“You won’t ever stop.”

He shook his head, not flinching from the fire of her gaze.

“I’ll drop the case,” she muttered, an edge to her voice. “And I won’t contest the adoption.” 

A weight the size of the world fell off of Geralt’s shoulders, and he had to balance his hand against the wall to keep standing.

“Thank you,” he said.

She watched him, eyes narrowed and shoulders drooped. 

“She’s my only heir,” she continued. “I’ll put her inheritance in a trust fund that she can access when she’s 18.”

He nodded, overwhelmed a second time at the relief that he wouldn’t have to come up with her college tuition on his own.

“Would you like to say goodbye to her?” he found himself asking. 

She shook her head. 

“I can’t bear to have her look at me that way again, like she did in there…” She adjusted her hair over her brow and stood straighter again. “Let her know me from a distance…it’s probably better that way.”

She pulled open the courtroom door and walked back inside. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Two Months Later_

Late one night, Geralt stopped to pick up the mail on his way home and nearly drove over the curb when he saw the legally embossed envelope from the County Courthouse. 

He sped to the house and nearly left the keys in his truck before finally making it inside, shaking from head to toe. 

Jaskier was stretched out on the couch, lute on his lap and song sheets and pencils on the coffee table, and his eyes widened with worry at his rushed entrance. 

“Geralt? Are you alright?”

He couldn’t speak—just held out the envelope with one hand and anchored the other to the back of the couch, about to shatter into a million pieces. 

Jaskier set aside his lute and ran over, eyes widening when he read the return address printed on the corner. 

“Open it,“ Geralt begged. “I can’t.”

Jaskier nodded, hands shaking as he tore off the top and removed the paperwork inside. He read the top page, eyes filling with tears. 

“She’s yours, Geralt,” he squeaked, voice choked. “She’s yours.”

Geralt threw his arms around him and sobbed with relief, then laughed as he leaned back and pulled Jaskier in for a kiss. 

“Daddy?”

A sleepy-eyed Ciri came out of her room, rubbing her eyes and dragging Roach behind her. 

Geralt dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around her, resting his head on her shoulder and inhaling the scent of strawberry shampoo in her frizzy, blonde hair. 

“Daddy, are you okay? What’s wrong?”

Geralt nodded, heart breaking in utter gratitude. 

“I’m fine, baby. Just fine,” he said, cheeks sore from how wide he was smiling. “Let’s get you back to bed. Tomorrow we’ve gotta get more tracing paper so you can practice your new last name.”

It took a minute for the news to register, but once it did, Ciri started squealing at a deafening pitch and jumped up and down until Geralt stood and picked her up, waving the teary Jaskier over to join them. 

The night ended with Geralt tucked into the recliner beside the couch, Ciri asleep on his chest and the adoption paperwork clutched in her hands, Jaskier strumming away on his lute, writing the reunion song for the long lost warrior finally finding his adopted daughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whelp. WHELP.  
> I’m getting closer to the break up that was mentioned at the start of this whole story—FREAKING WONDERFUL 😬😬😬😬😬😬  
> Y’all are gonna be as pissed as I was, BUT it all turns out good, I promise.  
> Love ya!! Stay healthy out there and give yourself a treat tonight! 😘❤️🥰


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt remembers the day he regrets most...and he discovers that being vulnerable can have its rewards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will shamelessly say I skipped most of the conflict with Geralt being a total prick to Jaskier because my heart couldn't take it with how terrible this past year has been. 
> 
> So instead I wrote Geralt and Ciri going at it which is probably worse haha 
> 
> But there's a happy ending to this chapter, I promise! 
> 
> Enjoy, loves!

_Two Years Ago_

He had all the reasons in the world for why he’d done what he did. 

And none of them mattered. 

It had been a half-hour since Jaskier packed up his car with his lute case and brightly-colored dress bags and worn suitcases and books and records and shoes—only his house key left on the countertop, and an envelope addressed to Geralt resting on the master bedroom pillow.

It had only been a half-hour, and Geralt knuckles were already lacerated shattering the picture-frame in the hallway. 

It held the best photo of the three of them, he and Ciri and Jaskier, at Disneyland, all in Mickey Mouse ears and eating pineapple ice cream cones—The trip was Jaskier’s present to Geralt and Ciri in honor of the adoption. 

It had also been their one year anniversary. 

Three weeks later, Geralt thought he’d be proposing to Jaskier with the gold wedding band he’d bought and kept in his wallet since Jaskier moved in—not wrapping gauze clumsily around his hand, stomach sinking at the thought of his empty bed and the empty mornings to follow. 

It was Ciri that told him—though he should’ve realized it before then. 

He should’ve believed Jaskier...not his lying bitch of an ex. 

The excuses for him completely losing his temper on the one person who loved him completely, body and soul, were as predictable as they were inexcusable: 

Up for 72 hours straight chasing a fugitive, discharging his weapon and barely missing a bullet himself, and Ciri home sick with a wicked bad case of the flu. 

The perfect storm only completed with Geralt’s increasing night terrors over losing Ciri, and Jaskier dying in his arms. 

Like a fucking idiot, he didn’t talk about it, with anyone—he just couldn’t talk about it. 

Which was a moot point when he screamed at Jaskier to get the fuck out and never come back.

Hiding his right hand, Geralt swallowed thickly and went to tuck Ciri in for the night, his whole body aching like he’d been beaten with a baseball bat.

Roach under one arm and her teddy bear in the other, Ciri brushed the blonde bangs out her eyes and peered around her room and past Geralt into the hallway, her wide blue eyes edged with a shadow of concern. 

“Daddy, where’s Jaskier? He said he was gonna tuck me in tonight.”

Geralt avoided her eyes, adjusting the blankets around her legs and shoulders. It had all happened so quickly that afternoon, he hadn’t given much thought to how he was going to tell her. 

“Jaskier isn’t coming in tonight, Ciri,” he murmured.

She dropped Roach and her teddybear as she bolted upright. 

“Why not?”

“Cub…Jaskier and I...broke up,” he murmured, taking her hands. “…He’s moved out, and…he won’t be living here anymore.”

Ciri gasped and she ran past Geralt and down to his room. She threw aside the covers on Jaskier’s side of the bed and when she didn’t find him there, she tore back to her room, past Geralt standing in her doorway, and dove under her desk for her iPad. 

“I need to call Jaskier,” she sobbed, wiping her tears and snot on the back of her hand. 

Geralt walked over and took her tablet, holding it out of her reach. 

“No, Ciri. You need to go to sleep.”

She jumped as high as she could, reaching for the tablet Geralt held several feet out of her reach. 

“I NEED TO TALK TO JASKIER!” she screamed, tears rolling down her cheeks. 

“CIRI! ENOUGH!” 

Geralt flinched at the volume in his voice. He’d never screamed at her before. 

But instead of cowering in the corner as he feared, she squared her shoulders, planted her feet, and shrieked at the top of her lungs,

“NO! BRING JASKIER BACK! YOU LOVE HIM AND I LOVE HIM AND YOU HAVE TO BRING HIM BACK RIGHT NOW!”

“I can’t, Ciri,” Geralt said, voice broken. “He left you alone when you were sick, baby. What if you’d gotten hurt while I was gone? What if you got sicker when no one was here?”

Ciri shook her head aggressively. 

“Jaskier was here all day! He only left when Aunt Yennefer came and he said he’d be back to tuck me in! But then Aunt Yennefer took me to her place and wouldn’t tell me why and then you came home and started yelling at him and I couldn’t tell you why because I was still at Aunt Yennefer’s!” 

“Ciri, you promised you’d never lie to me.”

Her wet eyes widened and she shouted, “I’m not lying, Daddy! Don’t call me a liar! I have never lied to you!”

She made another jump for her iPad, and Geralt held it behind his back. 

“Jaskier loves me! He asked Aunt Yennefer to watch me while he ran to his studio for an emergency and he didn’t go until she got here! And then Aunt Yennefer said we had to go to her place and she wouldn’t tell me why, and Jaskier called and called and called and Aunt Yennefer wouldn’t let me talk to him no matter how much I asked and Jaskier said he called you because she wouldn’t listen!”

Geralt’s stomach dropped to his knees as he remembered how many times Jaskier had called and texted him—and how angry he’d gotten when he finally spoke to him, spewing the story Yen had fed him as an excuse for ending their relationship and throwing him out.

And now, looking at Ciri, fresh tears on her red cheeks, he realized the truth he should’ve seen from the start. It was all just a lie concocted by Yen who used his daughter as fodder to make him doubt the love of his life. 

But as much as he wanted to blame Yennefer entirely, he should’ve trusted Jaskier. 

The man who had more than earned it. 

As much as he hated Yen for goading him into making one of the worst mistakes of his life, it was more his fault than hers. 

He should’ve known better. 

“I’m sorry, Ciri,” he murmured, kneeling down and handing her the tablet. “You’re right—I shouldn’t keep you from talking to Jaskier.” He turned it on for her, and wiped her cheeks off on the back of his hand.

“You told Jaskier to leave because you thought he hurt me?” Ciri asked. 

Geralt nodded. “Yes, baby.”

She pondered this a moment and asked, “Did Aunt Yennefer lie to you?”

Geralt nodded again, infuriating tears filling his eyes. 

Ciri held up her iPad and tugged on his shirt sleeve. “Tell Jaskier that…he’ll understand, Daddy. He doesn’t like Aunt Yennefer, either.”

Geralt smiled bitterly and kissed her forehead. “I don’t think that’ll work, Cub. But you can talk to him, and then it’s time for bed, okay?” 

She nodded, and he hugged her. 

“I’m sorry I yelled at you,” he murmured into her hair.

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, kissing his cheek and brushing the bangs out of his eyes. “Will Jaskier ever come back?” 

He didn’t answer, standing and leaving her door open as he padded his way down the hallway to the kitchen, digging his phone out of his pocket and dialing as he walked. 

“Hello?”

“You fucking lied to me,” he hissed, trying to lower his voice. 

Yennefer hesitated on the other end. “And how do you know that?”

“Despite how little trust you have in other people, I trust my daughter, and she told me what really happened.”

She paused and snorted. “So you’re blaming me for you kicking out your boy toy? After all we’ve been through together?”

“Don’t do that, Yen. That’s not fair.”

“You seemed to trust me when your daughter’s adoption was on the line.”

“You didn’t give me a choice—and you may recall, I didn’t ask for you to represent me.” 

He suddenly realized the truth about that, too…and could feel her sneer on the other line.

“You convinced Tissaia to take her place,” Geralt gritted. “There was no bad blood between her and Calanthe. That was all a sham. Just like tonight was with Ciri.”

“What does it matter?! Jaskier doesn’t deserve you,” Yennefer hissed. 

“You’re wrong,” Geralt muttered. “But he certainly deserves better than me.”

Before she could interject, he said, “You ever contact me or Ciri again, and I’m calling the police.”

He hung up, a box of Jaskier’s tea catching his eye from where it was tucked in the corner beside Ciri’s cereal and Geralt’s oat bran, and he broke down sobbing over the countertop. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

_Present Day_

Geralt couldn’t watch. 

He faced the corner, one arm wrapped around Jaskier’s waist and the other gripping his shoulder hard enough to leave bruises. He tensed as though to move, but Jaskier stopped him, stroking his tense fingers. 

“Don’t look, love,” Jaskier murmured, caressing through his hair. “Not yet.”

Triss hummed as she sat at the bedside, hands calm and practiced as she removed Ciri’s breathing tubes. It was a lullaby she sung under her breath, one of the tunes she used in her military days. The first time she sewed Geralt up, she sang that same song. 

His grip loosened at the memory, and he relaxed in Jaskier’s arms, unable to stop himself from pressing his lips to his neck and mumbling, “Thank you, lark.”

The musician’s breath hitched, and a hopeful warmth spread through Geralt’s chest as Jaskier wrapped his hand around the small of his back. 

“All done.” 

“You promise she’s breathing on her own?” Geralt asked.

“I’ve never lied to you, have I?” Triss asked, squeezing his shoulder and using it to turn him toward her. “Her lungs are strong, and her heartbeat is steady. She’s gonna make it.”

Geralt fought the tears stinging his eyes as he took in the sight of his daughter huddled against the blinding white sheets, her little arms limp and at her sides, the top of her hands covered in IV’s and medical tape. 

She looked even smaller without the distraction of the breathing tubes around her. 

“Come listen, Geralt,” Triss urged, her smile a warm comfort to the threat of panic in his chest. “She’s breathing.” 

He sniffled, pressed his lips together, and looked up in surprise when Jaskier took his hand and laced their fingers together. 

“C’mon,” he murmured, a teary smile on his face. 

Jaskier led the way to Ciri’s bedside, and Geralt knelt, shutting his eyes as he laid his head next to her.

In... 

Out... 

In...out...

“She’s breathing,” Geralt whispered, tears choking his voice. 

Jaskier’s fingers squeezing his shoulder only made the tears harder to stop. 

He opened his eyes and wiped his hand across them. 

“What about the feeding tubes?” 

“For now, we need to leave them in,” Triss replied. 

“—Until she wakes up, right?”

Jaskier’s voice was tight in panic, one hand resting on the sheet tucked over Ciri’s ankle, the other squeezing Geralt’s shoulder so tightly he felt the bite of his fingernails through his shirt.

“…Will she wake up, Triss?” he continued. 

The doctor hesitated, her telltale bang falling from her ponytail and curling over her eyes. 

“…I don’t know,” she said, looking from Jaskier to Geralt. “But the fact that we were able to take out her breathing tubes is a very good sign.” 

Triss focused her attention back on Ciri and Geralt knew the tick in her jaw was the fight against tears. 

“Thank you, Triss,” Geralt said as he stood. “For everything.” 

Triss crossed the room and tugged Jaskier into her arms, holding him until he broke down against her chest, her rose-colored scrubs darkening to maroon under the shower of his tears. 

“We haven’t given up hope, Jaskier,” she said, lifting her wet eyes to Geralt. “I promise.”

She motioned him over and she transferred the sobbing bard to his chest, where he curled up in the crook of his neck. 

Geralt stroked his hand up and down Jaskier’s back, and as his tears faded to whimpers, Triss said that she would be back in later to check on them. Geralt nodded, smiling his thanks as she shut the door behind her. 

“Jaskier,” he murmured, shushing him softly just like he did with Ciri, the sound of white noise having a similar effect on the musician as it did on his daughter. “Jaskier…”

“What?!” Jaskier snapped, pressing his forehead into Geralt’s chest as he wept harder, his arms tightening around Geralt’s waist. “I swear to god if you move one muscle, I will castrate you and shove you out that window.”

Geralt chuckled and pressed his lips to his forehead. 

“Alright, no need for violence,” he murmured, inhaling and exhaling in time with little Ciri behind him, his heart lightened at the knowledge that she wasn’t on the ventilator anymore…that even though the ECG was still pulsing out the rate of her heartbeat, the sickening inhale and exhale of the false lungs of the ventilator were finally gone. 

He didn’t know how he knew, but he knew she was going to make it. 

Jaskier shifted with a wince and an inhale of discomfort, and Geralt loosened his grip out of reflex but the bard firmly returned his hand to its place at the small of his back. 

“I meant it,” he whispered, voice cracked, sniffling against the now-soaked material of Geralt’s t-shirt. “Don’t move…please.”

All Geralt could do was obey, ignoring the stirrings of his cock against the crease of Jaskier’s hip, and the unbearable comfort he felt at having this man's weight against him again. 

“Why’d you break up with me?” Jaskier demanded suddenly. “I need to know…please, just give me a reason…”

“...Because I was too afraid of losing you to keep you.” His thumb found the crease of Jaskier’s back, where his spine met his hips, and he caressed that beloved spot. “I’ve never regretted anything more in my life than when I told you to leave.”

Jaskier shuddered against him. 

“ _Fuck_ …Geralt—I can’t keep going like I don’t care...like not hearing your voice isn’t killing me by sucking the breath from my lungs, and that the past week hasn't been the best and the worst seven days of my life.” 

He raised his head, red-ringed eyes still wet with tears. 

“My love...you may hate me for this, but no matter what happens, I can’t leave here without you.” 

He lifted him up until Jaskier’s chin hooked over his shoulder and his feet dangled just above the floor. 

“Neither can I.” 

Jaskier at last relaxed against him. 

“I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmured, laughter-veiled tears choking his voice as he burrowed his face in Geralt’s neck. 

They stood like that for the longest time, until Jaskier was out of tears and even his shuddering breaths had calmed, when Geralt’s ears perked up at the sound of hands rustling on sheets and he spun them around at a little voice, nasal around her feeding tubes.

“…Jaskier? Daddy?”

Her eyes were open, and she was watching them with a smile on her face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting there! One or two chapters left to this story. I'm already planning one-offs connected to it, as well as a possible sequel with Jaskier and Geralt coping with COVID-19. 
> 
> It's crazy--I'd started this story as a way to cope with quarantine, and I'm feeling UBER emotional that it's now almost done. 
> 
> I have SO MUCH SMUT PLANNED TOO. It's gonna be hawt af as a thank you to y'all for waiting so long and for going through all the angst haha <3 <3


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